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

would have given them a measure of control over him, and Jimmy Thunder took pride in
being his own man. Or god.
With a roar and a cry and a blast of escaping steam, the great black train finally slowed to a
halt beside the opposite platform. Jimmy stood very still in the deepest of the shadows, but
his eyes missed nothing. Steam billowed out onto the narrow platform like low fog, as doors
began opening down the length of the carriages, their slamming sounding loudly on the night
like a long roll of applause. People stepped slowly down onto the platform, looking
confusedly about them, unsettled to be suddenly only human. They clung together in little
groups, all wide eyes and chattering mouths, finding what comfort they could in the familiar
proximity of old friends or enemies.
The magical world is like an overlay on the real world, and though the real cannot see the
magical, it can sometimes still be affected by it. But there has always been traffic between the
two, mostly from Mysterie to Veritie, as beings of various kinds exchange the gaudier joys of
magic for the more secure bedrock of reality. And there have always been those with a foot in
both worlds, like Jimmy Thunder and the Waking Beauty. Many apparently ordinary people
and things cast powerful shadows in Mysterie, and, of course, vice versa.
There are always those willing to leave magic behind so that they might live out normal,
finite lives in Veritie. Some come to be free of their responsibilities, some to escape the
obligations of their particular natures. But just lately there had been whispers that Something
Bad was coming to Mysterie. Something awful and unstoppable, that would put an end to the
old familiar dance of magic and reality. Jimmy had heard the rumours, and mostly discounted
them. There were always rumours. But still people packed the carriages of the Reality
Express and paid their fare with gold and gems, magical artefacts and personal power. They
all had their reasons: vampires and werewolves who wanted to be freed from the demands of
their curses, or undead who craved to know the sensual pleasures of the living, or just to
know the simple joy of daylight. In Veritie, they could be mortal men and women, free from
fate or duty or geas. The price was always more than they expected. Some of the newcomers
were already shaking and shuddering on the platform, shocked at how much smaller they
seemed here, how much more diminished and vulnerable the human condition really was.
Some of them had never even been cold before.
Two figures appeared suddenly out of nowhere to welcome the newcomers, and Jimmy
leaned forward just a little for a better look. He was surprised, bordering on astonished, that
they'd actually been able to arrive at the station without his noticing. And then he saw who
the two were, and understood much. The man in charge of this small welcoming committee,
speaking so calmly and graciously and comfortingly to the uncertain refugees, was Nicholas
Hob, the Serpent's Son. Very old, very powerful, and irredeemably evil. Jimmy hadn't known
Hob was back in town. To the best of his knowledge, no one had. It had been a hundred years
and more since Nicholas Hob had gifted the town with his poisonous presence.
As always, he looked utterly perfect, in style and manners and everything that counted. He
was handsome, elegant, apparently in his late twenties, in great shape and dashing with it.
Blond, blue-eyed and almost overpoweringly masculine, Hitler would have loved him on
sight. (And probably had, if some of the rumours were true. There were a lot of rumours
about Hob.) His suit was of the very latest cut, and quite clearly the most expensive money
could buy. Gold and silver gleamed all over his person, and he was charm personified as he
welcomed one and all to their new lives in Veritie. He might have been a politician, a
successful businessman or a film star, and had been all of those and more, in his time. But
they were only the faces he hid behind, the masks he wore for other people. He was the
Serpent's Son, cunning and vicious, potent and foul, who walked through lives and destroyed
them, just for the hell of it. No one had ever been known to stand against him and live. He
was his father's son, and he could shine like the sun when he chose.