"Laurell K. Hamilton - Anita Blake 09 - Obsidian Butterfly" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hamilton Laurell K)

but it can still eat your throat out. It just won't do it tonight.
"Anita, you still there?"
"I'm here, Edward."
"You don't sound happy to hear from me."
"Let's just say I'm cautious," I said.
He laughed again. "Cautious. No, you're not cautious. You're suspicious."
"Yeah," I said. "So what's the favor?"
"I need back up," he said.
"What could be so terrible that Death needs backup?"
"Ted Forrester needs backup from Anita Blake, vampire executioner."
Ted Forrester was Edward's alter ego, his only legal identity that I was
aware of. Ted was a bounty hunter that specialized in preternatural creatures
that weren't vampires. As a general rule vamps were a specialty item, which
was one of the reasons that there were licensed vamp executioners but not
licensed anything else executioners. Maybe vampires just have a better
political lobby, but whatever, they get the most press. Bounty hunters like
Ted filled in the blanks between the police and the licensed executioners.
They worked mostly in rancher-run states where it was still legal to hunt down
varmints and kill them for money. Varmints still included lycanthropes. You
could shoot them on sight in about six states as long as later a blood test
proves they were lycanthropes. Some of the killings had been taken to court
and were being contested, but nothing had changed yet on a local level.
"So, what does Ted need me for?" Though truthfully I was relieved that it
was Ted asking and not Edward. Edward on his own probably meant illegal, maybe
even murder. I wasn't quite into cold-blooded murder. Not yet.
Come to Santa Fe and find out, he said.
"New Mexico? Santa Fe, New Mexico?"
"Yes."
"When?" I asked.
"Now."
 "Since I'm coming as Anita Blake, vamp executioner, I can flash my
executioner's license and bring my arsenal."
"Bring what you want," Edward said. "I'll share my toys with you when you
arrive."
"I haven't been to bed yet. Do I have time to get some sleep before I get
on a plane?"
"Get a few hours sleep, but be here by afternoon. We've moved the bodies,
but we're saving the rest of the crime scene for you."
"What sort of crime scene?"
"I'd say murder, but that's not quite the right word. Slaughter, butcher,
torture. Yes," he said, as if trying the word over in his mind, "a torture
scene."
"Are you trying to scare me?" I asked.
"No," he said.
"Then stop the theatrics and just tell me what the hell happened."
He sighed, and for the first time I heard a dragging tiredness in his
voice. "We've got ten missing. Twelve confirmed dead."
"Shit," I said. "Why haven't I heard anything on the news?"
"The disappearances made the tabloids. I think the headline was, 'Bermuda
Triangle in the Desert.' The twelve dead were three families. Neighbors just