"Simon R. Green - Nightside 1 - Drinking Midnight Wine" - читать интересную книгу автора (Green Simon R)

us?'
Only you can hear me, Leo. Only you.
'Yeah, but this is the Waking Beauty we're talking about.'
True. She's the only creature in this town who's older than I am.
7 wish you were just a voice in my head. Life would be so much simpler if I was just crazy. Hold
everything: what was that?'
A communication had come and gone so quickly Leo couldn't overhear or track it, but the dead man
had heard and understood. He turned and walked unhurriedly out of the pub. People got out of his
way without knowing why. Leo scrambled up from behind his table, realised for the first time that
the arty set were all long gone, shrugged and set off after the departing dead man. The mind voice
hadn't lasted long, but it had still made one hell of an impression, scoring through Leo's mind
like a length of barbed wire.
Major player.
Leo emerged blinking into the bright sunshine outside the Dandy Lion and hurried after the dead
man, at what he hoped was a discreet distance. Reed strode firmly off down the hill, people
parting on either side to let him pass without seeing him. Leo tried hard to keep thinking of his
quarry as the dead man, an object rather than a person, but it wasn't easy. Reed had been one of
his few real friends. He'd gone to Reed's funeral, tried to say the right things to the grieving
relatives, had stood at the graveside and made his goodbyes; and now Reed was up and about again,


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a pawn in someone else's dirty game. Leo's hands clenched into fists at his sides. Someone was
going to pay for this, and pay in blood. Leo's wolfish smile flashed again as he considered the
awful mess he was going to make of whoever had been foolish enough to raise his anger. He didn't
care how big or powerful or influential the bastard might turn out to be. He never did. He was Leo
Morn, and no one messed with him and his. His mind filled with happy thoughts of broken bones and
torn flesh and spurting blood, and people moved aside to let him pass too.
The Brother Under The Hill maintained a neutral silence.
Leo followed the dead man through the centre of the town, and across the old bridge over the River
Avon. Green reeds poked up through the dark waters, while crowds of ducks competed noisily for
breadcrumbs thrown by tourists. A pair of pure white swans watched disdainfully from a distance.
The dead man passed the Chapel on the Bridge, a solid square of ancient stonework jutting out over
the river. It had been there so long no one now remembered who built it, or why. Some said it had
been a private chapel, others that it had been an overnight lock-up for local drunks. There was
one door, always locked, and small barred windows. Even in Veritie, it was a squat, brooding
presence. As the dead man passed the Chapel, the Howling Thing stirred ominously.
Although it was a part of the magical world, for ever separated from reality, the Howling Thing
was still a powerful enough presence that its rage caused ripples in both worlds. People passing
the Chapel often crossed themselves, even if they didn't know why. The Howling Thing reacted to
the necromantic energies surrounding the dead man, and hurled itself furiously at the locked door.
It raged and beat against the four confining walls, old stone sealed and consecrated by ancient
sorceries, and fought to be free. Its awful voice rose and fell, never-ending, promising revenge
and retribution. It never stopped, never rested, but still its cage held it, as it had for
centuries past and would do so for centuries yet to come.
There were those who said the Howling Thing founded Bradford-on-Avon, long, long ago. Others said
it tried to destroy the town. And some claimed it was the town's spirit, and that if it ever
escaped or was released, the town would come to an end. The truth was, no one knew anything for