"Clive_Barker_Tortured_Souls" - читать интересную книгу автора (Barker Clive - Coldheart Canyon)

He ignored them. He simply followed in Lucidique's footsteps across the sand.
She glanced over her shoulder at the old man, who wore a curious expression. In some strange way he was happy at that moment; happier than he'd been in many years, with the wind hot against his face, and the beautiful woman calling to him to come with her-—
Seeing that he was obeying her, she returned her gaze to the sandstorm, which was now no more than a hundred yards off. There was something moving at its heart. She was not surprised. Though she hadn't planned the reunion that lay ahead she had nevertheless known in her heart that it was coming. Her life since she'd stepped into her father's death-chamber, and seen Kreiger at work, had been like a strange dream, which she was somehow shaping without conscious effort.
She stopped walking. Cascarellian had caught up with her and seized her arm. He had a knife in the other hand. He pressed it to her breast.
"So that's where he is!" said Cascarellian staring at the dark giant in the heart of the storm. "Your Scythe-Meister."
As he spoke, the sandstorm picked up a sudden spurt of speed and came at them--
"Don't come any closer!" the Don warned the creature in the storm. "I'll kill her."
He pressed the knife into Lucidique's skin, just enough to draw blood.
"Tell him to keep his distance," he warned.
"It isn't Kreiger. It's a man called Agonistes. He has God's finger-prints upon him."
The heresy of this made Cascarellian's devoted stomach turn. "Don't talk that way!" he said, and with a sudden spurt of righteousness he drove the knife into her heart. She reached out, and touched the wound, then with her finger bloody grazed his forehead. A death mark.
Cascarellian let the body drop to the ground and ordered a quick retreat to the cars before the storm reached them. This grim business wasn't finished, just because she was dead. He knew that. It was just beginning.

He turned the house into a fortress. He had the windows sealed, and blessed with holy water. He bricked up the chimneys. He had guards and dogs patrolling the place night and day.
After a week he began to believe that perhaps his faith and his gifts of money to the diocese, buying congregations praying for his safety, were having some effect.
He started to relax.
Then, on the afternoon of the eighth day, a wind came out of the West: a sandy wind. It hissed at the sealed doors and the windows. It whined beneath the floorboards. The old man took two tranquilizers and a glass of wine, and went to sit in his bath.
A pleasant torpor overcame him as he sat in the warm water. His eyes fluttered closed.
And then her voice. Somehow she'd got in. She'd survived the knife to her heart and she'd got in.
"Look at you," she said. "Naked as a baby."
He grabbed his towel to cover himself, but as he did so she stepped out of the shadows and showed herself to him, in all her terrible glory. She was not the Lucidique he'd known; not remotely. Her whole body was transformed. She'd become a living weapon.
"Oh Jesus help me..." he murmured.
She reached forward and she castrated him with one sweep of her scythe. He clamped his bloody hands to his empty groin and stumbled out to the landing, calling for help. But the house was silent from roof to cellar. He called his sons' names, one by one. None came. Only his old dog Malleus answered his call, and when he trotted through from the kitchen he left red paw-marks on the white carpet. He was eating something human.
"All dead." Lucidique said.
Then, very gently, she took hold of the back of Cascarellian's neck, the way a mother-cat catches hold of an errant kitten, and lifted him up, effortlessly. The blood from his vacant groin slapped against the carpet.
She put her blade to his chest and cut out his heart. Then she let his body tumble back down the stairs.

Later, when the wind had dropped, and she could see the stars clearly, she went out into the street, leaving the door to the Cascarellian mansion wide open so that atrocity there should be soon discovered. Then she headed out, through a variety of back streets and alleys, to the West Gate, and thence into the waiting desert.


Book Four
The Surgeon of the Sacred Heart
I
With the Emperor and his family dead at the hand of The Scythe-Meister, and the head Don of Primordium, Duraf Cascarellian, slaughtered by Lucidique (along with most of his sons and bodyguards) an uneasy peace had settled on the city. The minor brawls and battles that had erupted after the Great Insurrection quietened down. It was as though nobody wanted to draw attention to themselves; not with so many murderous forces abroad in the city's streets.
The Military junta that had taken charge of the running of the city during this crisis was headed by a triumvirate of Generals: Bogoto, Urbano and Montefalco. They were no better nor worse than any of their type: men who'd risen to the top of their belligerent trade by showing the greatest propensity for cruelty and control.
But beneath the institutionalized sadism and their manic capacity for violence, two qualities long hidden in the hearts of the three Generals, there also lay qualities that they would have been ashamed to confess they possessed. One, a sickly sentimentality (focused upon their mothers in the cases of Generals Bogoto and Urbano, and upon girls of six or seven in the case of Montefalco). Second, a startling capacity for superstition.
It went undiscussed, but they each knew the other was touched by a profound fear of the uncanny. And there was no city presently more inundated in unholy matters than Primordium. Rumour was rife here; and its subject was seldom rational. The stories that were passed around the soldiers' campfires (and sooner or later reached the Generals' ears) were of unnatural horrors: things that defied reason. Tales of monsters that had been bred from the loins of the Scythe-Meister; of the vengeful ghosts of children; of succubi, their sexual attributes discussed in clammy, but arousing detail.

One night, after some very heavy drinking, the three men vented their fears.
"It is my belief," Urbano said, "that this damned city is haunted."
The other two men nodded grimly.
"What do you suggest we do about it?" Bogoto asked.
It was Montefalco who replied. "Well, for a start...if I had my druthers I'd burn the illegal immigrant quarter to the ground. It's they who engage in most of these unholy goings-on."
"But the work-force..." Bogoto said. "Who'd empty our shit cans? Who'd bury the lepers?"
Montefalco had to concede the point. "At least we could target any element we suspect of intercourse with demonic forces."
"Good. Good." said Urbano. "Vigilance."
"And punishment," Montefalco went on. "Swift, draconian measures-—"
"Public executions."
"Yes!"
"Burnings?"