"Simon R. Green - Drinking Midnight Wine" - читать интересную книгу автора (Green Simon R)

you?'
'I'm Gayle. I should have noticed you were here, but I was . . . distracted. The weather was
supposed to be sunny all day. There wasn't even a chance of rain. And I am never wrong
about these things. But today something changed, in your world and in mine, and it worries
me that I can't see how or why such an impossible thing should happen. Why did you follow
me, Toby Dexter?'
'I wanted to talk to you. Ask you if you'd like to go out, for dinner, or something . . .'
Gayle smiled and shook her head. 'I'm afraid that's quite impossible.'
'Oh,' said Toby, disappointed but not incredibly surprised. 'Well; I suppose I'll see you
around.'
'Yes,' said Gayle. 'I'm rather afraid you will.'
She turned and walked off into the bright sunny evening, and didn't look back once. Toby
stood there, with his dripping umbrella, and there was no sign of rain anywhere at all.
TWO
THE REALITY EXPRESS




A ghost train is coming to Bradford-on-Avon, thundering down the tracks, puffing smoke and
steam. It is coming in the early hours of the morning, long before the dawn, in the hour of the
wolf; the hour when most babies are born and most people die, when no train is scheduled to
run.
A great black iron train, with hot steam raging in its boiler, avatar of a different age, it fills
the night air with dirty smoke and flying cinder flecks, pulling old-fashioned carriages that
bear names from companies long since vanished into the mists of history. The heavy black
iron of the train's body is scored all over with runes and sigils and names of power. The great
wheels are solid silver, striking singing sparks from the steel tracks. The smoke billowing
from the tall black stack smells of brimstone, and the whistle is the cry of a damned soul. The
train plunges headlong through the night, faster than any train has a right to go, ancient or
modern. The carriages shake and sway, rattling along behind, the windows illuminated with
the eerie blue glow of underwater grottos. The Reality Express is coming into town, right on
time.
Eager faces press against the shimmering glass of the carriage windows, desperate for a
first glance of their destination, excited and fearful at the same time. Not all the faces are
human. They have paid for their tickets with everything they had, or might have been, and it
is far too late now to change their minds. They are refugees from the magical world of
Mysterie, seeking asylum and safe harbour in the cold sanity of Veritie. The Reality Express
is a one-way trip, and only the desperate and the truly needy apply.
The great iron beast hammers down the tracks, as fast as misfortune and as implacable as
destiny, sounding its awful whistle as the town of Bradford-on-Avon draws near. And
standing quiet and calm in the shadows of the chimney stack on the station's waiting-room
roof is Jimmy Thunder, God For Hire, with his great hammer in its holster on his hip. The
only private eye in the magical realms raises his head and smiles as he hears the terrible cry
of the dark old train, and looks up the track, curious as to what the night will bring. The
product of gods and mortals, Jimmy Thunder has a foot in each world and a home in neither -
a dangerous man to both.
And somewhere in the dark, waiting for the train's arrival, two figures stand, scarier than
the Reality Express or a God For Hire could ever hope to be.