"Laurell K. Hamilton - Strange Candy" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hamilton Laurell K)

I buzzed our receptionist area. “Mary, I’m booked up for this week and won’t be seeing any more
clients, until at least next Tuesday.”

“I’ll see to it, Anita.”

I leaned back in my chair and soaked up the silence. Three animations a night was my limit. Tonight they
were all routine, or almost. I was bringing back my first research scientist. His three colleagues couldn’t
figure out his notes, and their deadline, or rather grant, was running close. So dear Dr. Richard Norris
was coming back from the dead to help them out. They were scheduled for midnight.

At three this next morning I would meet the widowed Mrs. Stiener. She wanted her husband to clear up
some nasty details with his will.

Being an animator meant very little nightlife, no pun intended. Afternoons were spent interviewing clients
and evenings raising the dead. Though we few were very popular at a certain kind of party—the sort
where the host likes to brag about how many celebrities he knows, or worse yet, the kind who simply
want to stare. I don’t like being on display and refuse to go to parties unless forced. Our boss likes to
keep us in the public eye to dispel rumors that we are witches or hobgoblins.
It’s pretty pitiful at parties. All the animators huddled, talking shop like a bunch of doctors. But doctors
don’t get called witch, monster, zombie queen. Very few people remember to call us animators. For
most, we are a dark joke. “This is Anita. She makes zombies, and I don’t mean the drink.” Then there
would be laughter all around, and I would smile politely and know I’d be going home early.

Tonight there was no party to worry over, just work. Work was power, magic, a strange dark impulse to
raise more than what you were paid for. Tonight would be cloudless, moonlit, and starred; I could feel it.
We were different, drawn to the night, unafraid of death and its many forms, because we had a sympathy
for it.

Tonight I would raise the dead.

Wellington Cemetery was new. All the tombstones were nearly the same size, square or rectangle, and
set off into the night in near-perfect rows. Young trees and perfectly clipped evergreen shrubs lined the
gravel driveway. The moon rode strong and high, bathing the scene clearly, if mysteriously, in silver and
black. A handful of huge trees dotted the grounds. They looked out of place among all this newness. As
Carla had said, only two of them grew close together.

The drive spilled into the open and encircled the hill. The mound of grass-covered earth was obviously
man-made, so round, short, and domed. Three other drives centered on it. A short way down the west
drive stood two large trees. As my car crunched over gravel, I could see someone dressed in white. A
flare of orange was a match, and the reddish pinpoint of a cigarette sprang to life.

I stopped the car, blocking the drive, but few people on honest business visit cemeteries at night. Carla
had beaten me here, very unusual. Most clients want to spend as little time as possible near the grave
after dark. I walked over to her before unloading equipment.

There was a litter of burned-out cigarettes like stubby white bugs about her feet. She must have been
here in the dark for hours waiting to raise a zombie. She either was punishing herself or enjoyed the idea.
There was no way of knowing which.