"Tanya Huff - Keeper's Chronicles 2 - The Second Summoning" - читать интересную книгу автора (Huff Tanya)

Cheryl waved off the suggestion. “What’s your hurry? Introduce me to the
piece of beefcake the cat thinks you should do the big nasty with.”

“The what?”

“You know; the horizontal mambo, the beast with two backs.” Her pelvic
motions, barely masked by the red stretch pants, cleared up any lingering confusions.
“He a Keeper, too?”

Claire glanced over at Dean who was staring at the ghost with an expression
of horrified fascination. Or fascinated horror, she wasn’t entirely certain which. “He’s
a friend. And that was a private conversation.”

“Ask me if I care?” Translucent hands patted ephemeral pockets. “I’d kill for a
freaking smoke. Couldn’t hurt me much now, could they? You oughta go for it,
Keeper.”

“I don’t smoke.”

A ghostly, dismissive glance raked her up and down. “Not surprised, you’ve
got that tobacco-free, alcohol-free, cholesterol-free, is that your natural hair color?”

“Yes.” Claire tucked a strand of dark brown hair behind her ear.

“Hair-color free sort of look. Take my advice, hon, try a henna.”

“I ought to go for a henna?”

“Yeah, in your hair. But that wasn’t what I meant. You oughta go for him.”
She nodded toward Dean. “Live a little. I mean, men take their pleasure where they
find it, right? Why not women? Your husband screws around, you know, and
everyone thinks he’s such a freaking stallion and all you get’s a ‘sorry, sweetie’ that
you’re supposed to take ‘cause he’s out of work and feeling unsure of his manhood,
like it’s your freaking fault he got LAID OFF. . . .”

Claire and Austin, who’d been watching the energy build, dropped to the
floor. Dean, whose generations of Newfoundland ancestors trapped between a barren
rock and an angry sea had turned adaptability into a genetic survival trait, followed
less than a heartbeat behind.

In the sudden flare of yellow-white light, the clock radio and the garbage pail
flew through the air and slammed into opposite walls.

“. . . but if you do it, just once, then BAM . . .”

The bureau drawers whipped open, then slammed shut.

“. . . brain aneurysm, and you’re stuck haunting this freaking DUMP!”

Both beds rose six inches into the air, then crashed back to the floor.