"Lackey, Mercedes - Born To Run" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lackey Mercedes)

The man had nearly stifled his laughing. He wiped his nose with a napkin. “All right. So it does. I just get enthusiastic sometimes. Guess I've gotten used to things working out.”
Tania peered out towards the horizon again. The container ship there was four times larger, but still appeared no closer. “I haven't had that kind of luck lately. The street takes away dreams. Makes them hard to even remember. . . .”
Tannim nodded, as if he understood. Maybe he did. “Yeah. Yeah, I can imagine. But, well, like I said, sometimes all we need is a reminder that we can do about anything.”
She shook her head stubbornly. “But how come you're doing all this for me? It doesn't make any sense! You've got to have something better to do than—”
“Than spend my day with a teenage hooker?” he interrupted. “If you were any such thing, maybe so. But I don't believe that any more than you really do. You know you hate it, but you think it's all you are. We both know better. And, well, yeah, I could be working. I've got testing to do, but, hell . . . the machines can wait. You can't. Not another day. Or else you wouldn't have shown up at Kevin Barry's looking for me.”
They were both silent for a moment, watching the huge ship at last move into the channel. It was at least twelve stories high, marked in a language Tania couldn't identify. It bore a prancing horse atop a globe painted on one stack, above hundreds of multicolored boxes the size of tractor-trailers. Tannim stood up slowly and dusted his jeans off, then raised his arms and waved.
From beside a massive lifeboat a single figure waved back.
Tannim stood, grinning and satisfied, hands on hips. “There. A first welcome home.”
* * *
Tania and Tannim talked for what felt like an hour. He was so easy to talk to, that by the time she realized what she'd done, she'd not only told him about herself, she was telling him about Laura and Jamie, too. She managed to keep from blowing everything, but from the bleak expression on his face, she guessed he was able to figure out most of it on his own. So she tried to change the subject—
But he changed it for her, asking her first about what she liked to read. That got her on the subject of fantasy, and then she was spilling the whole story about the night her mother found her books, and what had happened, and she was holding back tears with an effort. . . .
He patted her hand, but didn't try to touch her in any other way—which was just as well, really. She would have felt really stupid and afraid, both at the same time. Stupid, because she was crying over books, for chrissake; afraid, because if he touched her, he might try something more, and she liked him, she didn't want him to be like another trick. But she wanted someone to hold her and comfort her, wanted it so badly it was a dull ache deep down inside.
She stared out at the river as another ship appeared in the distance, and fought her tears down. Finally, after a long silence, he cleared his throat self-consciously.
“Don't you think maybe you ought to go back to your folks?” he said cautiously. “I know it was bad, but—”
She shook her head, angrily. “No!” she replied adamantly. “It was like being in jail all the time, except I hadn't done anything to deserve it! Hell, even in jail, people get to read what they want!”
“But—” he began. She cut him off with a look.
“I didn't deserve being treated like a criminal, and I won't go back to it,” she said firmly, relieved that anger had chased away the incipient tears.
“All right, so you won't go back—but what about one of the shelters?” he replied. “That would get you out of that apartment into somewhere safe, and you could go back to school. You could even get a job if you wanted to; the shelter would help you.”
She laughed, sourly. “Haven't been out on the street, have you?” she asked. He shook his head. “Well, the good shelters have waiting lists—or else they only let you stay a couple of weeks,” she said, bitter memories of checking the places out still fresh in her mind. “And the rest of them either have churches running them, or they're always on your case about contacting your parents—and if you won't, they will, whether or not you like it.”
He blinked. “Oh,” he said. “But—don't you think it's still better than—”
“I don't need Jesus with my orange juice, thanks,” she snapped in irritation. “I don't need getting told this was all my fault and I'm a sinful slut. I don't need getting nagged at, and told by some stupid psychologist who never met my parents how much they really do care about me. All they ever wanted was something else they could boast to the people at the club about. They never cared about me, they only cared about how good I could make them look.” She shook her head. “By now they've probably put a Soloflex in my room. And they've figured out not having me around saves them enough for a weekend cruise to Bermuda every couple of months. I'll stay where I am, thanks.”
Tannim just looked sad, and watched the ship grow nearer. “I never thought I'd wind up here,” he said, after a while. “There was a time when I thought I'd stay in Oklahoma all my life. Now—sometimes I wonder if I'm ever going to really settle down in one place.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Because I like traveling,” he replied, and started off on a series of stories that lasted until the sun started to set. Some of them were so crazy they couldn't be true—and she wondered about the rest. It was weird, like he was talking around something half the time. Surely nobody as young as Tannim could have done so much in such a short time, could he?
On the other hand, why would he lie to her?
She let him talk; while he was telling her stories, he couldn't pry any more out of her. Finally, though, all the food had been eaten, all the stories seemed to have been told, and the sun was going down. She had work to do—
She found herself dreading it; going back onto the street seemed filthier than ever after this afternoon. But she didn't say anything, and when Tannim asked her if she wanted to go back to town, she just nodded and let him lead the way back to his car.
They were both silent on the way back to the city; it was as if they had forgotten how to talk to each other, or that they didn't know what to say. The silence was as awkward as the earlier conversation had been free. When Tannim asked her where she wanted to be dropped off, she replied, vaguely, “Wheaton Street, near Bee,” and hardly noticed his wince.
But she did notice the worried look he wore when he pulled over to the curb and she got out.
“I wish you wouldn't,” he said, and she didn't have to ask what he meant. She shoved her hands in her pockets, unable to look him in the eye—
And discovered that there was paper in there, paper that hadn't been there before.
She pulled it out. It was money, cash; several twenties. She wasn't sure how many, because she shoved it hastily back into her pocket before someone could see that she had it. “You believe in magic?” he asked. And before she could reply, continued, “Don't. It's unreliable. Make your own luck.”
He smiled, reached over, and closed the door, then pulled out into traffic, leaving her standing on the corner.
With a pocket full of cash.
Make your own luck, he'd said. What was that supposed to mean? Or was it supposed to mean anything at all?
She turned to head down the street, pausing once in the shelter of a doorway to remove the cash again, and count it.
Five soft, old twenties. One hundred dollars. Exactly what he'd given her the last time.
Make your own luck.
Well, there was one thing she could do. She could get off the street for another night. Maybe even another week. That was luck enough for right now.
* * *
“Sam, old lad, could ye hand me that wee driver?” The Sidhe-mechanic put a hand out from underneath the computer-module, and Sam dutifully dropped a small screwdriver into it. An aluminum socket-wrench; Donal might be one of the three Sidhe at Fairgrove capable of handling Cold Iron with relative impunity, but it was only “relative.” Right now Donal was doing something more than a bit dangerous: manipulating some of this computer equipment magically, altering it so that while it looked perfectly normal from the outside, and in fact would pass inspection by any licensed tech, what it would register was not what would be going on inside.
Which was, in fact, nothing at all.
But even the tiny amount of Cold Iron present in the screws holding various covers in place was enough to foul Donal's magic. Donal was taking them all out, placing them in an insulating container, then making his alterations according to Sam's instructions. The Sidhe's body twisted about for a moment as he squirmed to reach the tiny screws, then was still.
“There now,” Donal said, his voice muffled, but the satisfaction coming through plainly. “That should do it. Turn it on, old lad, and let's see if it lies to us proper.”
“Are you sure you want me to do that?” Sam asked anxiously. “You're still in there—that's a direct 220 feed—”
Rob, Donal's human shadow, snickered. “Ah, don't worry about frying Donal's brains. He hasn't any to speak of. All you'll do is reinforce his perm.”
“And who was it had to have his phone taken away, 'cause he'd order every damn thing K-Swell ever made?” Donal countered. “Who was it came t'me in mortal terror, 'cause he'd broken a chain letter? Who was it that told Keighvin he'd seen Elvis baggin' groceries at Kroger? Hmm?”
“Beats me,” Rob said cheerfully, his round face shining with amusement.
“Well, Skippy, I think I'll take that as an invitation—” Donal started to emerge—fist-first—or at least made motions as if he might.
“All right, all right! So I get a little carried away!” Rob sighed dramatically.