"Tanya Huff - Keeper's Chronicles 1 - Summon the Keeper" - читать интересную книгу автора (Huff Tanya)

Claire had never been challenged to breakfast before. "If it's included,
breakfast is fine." Another time, she might have managed a more spirited response.
Then she remembered. "Do you take pets?"
"I do not! That's a filthy lie! You've been talking to Mrs. Abrams next door in
number thirty-five, haven't you? Bloody cow. Lets her great, hairy baby crap all over
the drive."
Beginning to shiver under the weight of her wet clothing, it took Claire a
moment to work out just where the conversation had departed from the expected text.
"I meant, do you mind pets staying in the hotel?"
The old man snorted. "Then you should say what you mean."
Something in his face seemed suddenly familiar, but the shadows cast by the
single bulb hanging high overhead defeated Claire's attempt to bring his features into
better focus. Her left eyelid began to twitch in time with the pounding in her skull.
"Do I know you?"
"You do not."
He was telling the truth although something around the edges of his voice
suggested it wasn't the entire truth. Before she could press the matter, he snarled, "If
you don't want the room, I suggest you move on. I don't intend standing around here
all night."
The thought of going back out into the storm wiped everything else from her
head. "I want the room."
He dragged an old, green, leather-bound book out from under the counter and
banged it down in front of her. Slapping it open to a blank page, he shoved a pen in
her general direction. "Sign here."
She'd barely finished the final "n," her sleeve dragging a damp line across the
yellowing paper, when he plucked the pen from her hand and replaced it with a key
on a pink plastic fob.
"Room one. Top of the stairs to your right."
"Do I owe you anything in ad…" Claire let the last word trail off. The old man
had vanished as suddenly as he'd appeared. "Guess not."
Picking up her luggage, she started up the stairs, trusting to instinct for her
footing since the light was so bad she couldn't quite see the floor a little over five feet
away.
Room one matched its key; essentially modern-if modern could be said to start
around the late fifties-and unremarkable. The carpet and curtains were dark blue, the
bedspread and the upholstery light blue. The walls were off-white, the furniture dark
and utilitarian. The bathroom held a sink, a toilet, and a tub/shower combination and
had the catch-in-the-throat smell of institutional cleansers.
Given the innkeeper, it was much better than Claire had expected. She set the
wicker carrier on the dresser, unbuckled the leather straps, and lifted off the top. After
a moment, a disgruntled black-and-white cat deigned to emerge and inspect the room.
As the storm howled impotently about outside the window, Claire shrugged
out of her coat, wrapped her hair in a towel and collapsed onto the bed trying,
unsuccessfully, to ignore the drum solo going on between her ears.
"Well, Austin, do the accommodations meet with your approval?" she asked
as she heard him pad disdainfully from the bathroom. "Not that it matters; this is the
best we can do for tonight."
The cat jumped up beside her. "That's too bad because-and I realize I risk
sounding clichéd in saying it-I've got a bad feeling about this."
Claire managed to crack both eyelids open about a millimeter. No one had