"Charles de Lint - Someplace To Be Flying" - читать интересную книгу автора (De Lint Charles)

Hank couldn't feel the pain in his shoulder anymore. His mind had
gone blank, except for one thing. His entire being seemed to hold its
breath and focus on the muzzle of the automatic, waiting for another
flash, more pain. But they didn't come.
The man turned away from him, cobra-quick, his weapon now
aimed at something on the roof of the cab. It hadn't registered until the
man moved, but now Hank realized he'd also heard what had distracted
the killer. An unexpected sound. A hollow bang on metal as though
someone had jumped onto the roof of the cab.
Jumped from where? His own gaze followed that of his attacker's.
One of the fire escapes, he supposed. He knew a momentary sense of
relief-someone else was playing Good Samaritan tonight-except there
was only a girl standing there on the roof of the cab. A kid. Skinny and
monochrome and not much to her: raggedy blue-black hair, dark
complexion, black clothes, and combat boots. There seemed to be a
cape fluttering up behind her like a sudden spread of black wings, there
one moment, gone the next, and then she really was just a kid, standing
there, her weight on one leg, a switchblade held casually in a dark
hand.
Hank wanted to cry a warning to her. Didn't she see the man had a
gun? Before he could open his mouth, the killer stiffened and an
expression finally crossed his features: surprise mixed with pain. His
gun went off again, loud as a thunderclap at this proximity, the bullet
kicking sparks from the fire escape before it went whining off into the
darkness. The man fell to his knees, collapsing forward in an ungainly
sprawl. Dead. And where he'd been standing . . . the girl. . . .
Hank blinked, thinking the girl had somehow transported herself
magically from the top of the cab to the pavement behind the killer. But
the first girl was still standing on the roof of the cab. She jumped to the
ground, landing lightly on the balls of her feet. Seeing them together,
he realized they were twins.
The second girl knelt down and cleaned her knife on the dead man's
pants, leaving a dark stain on the dove-gray material. Closing the blade,
she made it disappear up her sleeve and walked away to where the
woman Hank had been trying to rescue lay in the glare of the cab's
headlights.
"You can get up now," the first girl said, making her own
switchblade vanish.
Hank tried to rise but the movement brought a white-hot flare of
pain that almost made him black out again. The girl went down on one
knee beside him, her face close to his. She put two fingers to her lips
and licked them, then pressed them against his shoulder, her touch as
light as a whisper, and the pain went away. Just like that, as though
she'd flicked a switch.
Leaning back, she offered Hank her hand. Her skin was dry and
cool to the touch and she was strong. Effortlessly, she pulled him up
into a sitting position. Hank braced himself for a fresh flood of pain,
but it was still gone. He reached up to touch his shoulder. There was a
hole in his shirt, the fabric sticky and wet with blood. But there was no