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

Satisfied, she put it to sleep with a thought, closed the lid on the creature's “coffin” and moved on to the next box.
She was half done when Vidal entered the complex, so immersed in her creations that she honestly didn't notice he was there until he knocked something over in the Studio Two bathroom and it broke. That startled her and broke her concentration, and she sensed his presence. She waited impatiently for him to put in an appearance and disrupt her work.
But he didn't; in fact, he stayed right where he was. She heard him moving about the bathroom, but very slowly—unnaturally so.
What on earth is wrong?
She finally left the workroom, too puzzled to continue working. When she entered Studio Two, she realized that the sound she had attributed to the background of disturbing noises that was a constant in the Underhill chaos-lands was actually nothing of the sort; it was the sound of Vidal moaning.
She strode over to the bathroom door, her high-heels clicking on the stone of the floor, and jerked the bathroom door open.
She had half expected to find the Sidhe drunk, or otherwise incapacitated with self-indulgence. She certainly did not expect to find him wounded, bleeding, and suffering from Cold Iron poisoning. His face looked like a bloodied sponge.
“By the dark moon!” she exclaimed, shocked, and too startled to keep from showing it. “What happened to you?”
Vidal just groaned. She clamped her mouth shut on further questions, kicked off her shoes, and used the last of her energies to conjure handfuls of silk and bone instruments, tweezers and probes.
When she was finished, Vidal lay on the couch in the old Roman set, swathed in bandages, and she had a bloodstained, silk-wrapped bundle containing a handful of tiny iron fragments. She would have to take it across the Gate into the human side to dispose of it.
She shoved it aside for the moment with her foot. “What happened?” she asked flatly, fearing that Vidal had done something irrevocable. “I thought you and Niall were harassing Keighvin, I thought you'd issued a challenge—”
“We were,” Vidal said, after a long moment of silence. “We were. But the bastard brought the humans into it, and the humans brought their own weapons. One of them got Niall with blessed water—the old blessing, the touch of the sun and the full of the moon—”
“What?” she exclaimed. “I didn't think anyone knew that this side of the ocean! Did he—”
“He's all right,” Vidal said, sullenly. “He didn't get hit with a great deal, and I managed to get him back Underhill before it did too much damage to him. I—”
The shiver of Power behind her warned her of Niall's approach. “He did the best he could,” the Bane-Sidhe said hoarsely, as she whirled on her knees to face him. Filmy white rags—much cleaner than they had been—fluttered as the creature gestured expansively. The charnel odor wasn't as bad, either.
Too bad he doesn't get doused with holy water more often.
“He did more than most. I pledged my full power if he could remove the mortal beast that struck me down. I had come to see if you had triumphed,” Niall concluded.
“It was wiser than I had thought,” Vidal said bitterly, raising himself up onto one elbow. “It was craftier.”
A hiss of rage emerged from the hood cloaking the Bane-Sidhe's features. “So I see,” it replied.
Aurilia held her breath. Uppermost in her mind was the fear that now the Bane-Sidhe would revoke its promise. Without Niall's aid and magic, she would not be able to restrain Vidal Dhu. He would fling himself at Keighvin's pet mortals until they destroyed him—and with him, her plans for vengeance.
The Bane-Sidhe raised itself up to its full height. Aurilia shrank into herself; Niall towered over her, emanating a kind of cold hatred. He seemed to pull all the light into himself—the very air grew dark, thick, and oppressive, while he himself glowed a faint, leprous blue-white. She shivered, and her breath caught in her throat. She had never experienced Niall's full power before this, and now she understood why mortals died of fright on simply seeing him.
“This cannot be borne,” Niall said hollowly. “Mortals have never confronted us and won. This cannot be permitted. If more of them discover our weaknesses, they may learn also how to travel Underhill and confront us here as well.”
That had never occurred to her; and the thought was as chilling as the full effect of the Bane-Sidhe's Presence.
Then she realized what Niall had not said. He was not removing himself and his power from their alliance. He was not insisting that they leave Keighvin and Fairgrove alone. In fact, he seemed to be advocating the very opposite. “But—” she began, feebly.
The cowl bent to regard her, and she shivered again. “We must eliminate Keighvin Silverhair and his mortal allies,” the Bane-Sidhe said grimly. “He is the champion of those of the Seleighe Court who wish to integrate their society with that of the mortals. That must not be! I pledge to you, I shall drain every drop of my power to see him defeated and destroyed!”
“But we must be careful,” she replied, quickly.
Niall paused for a moment, and then sighed, shrinking back to his normal size as he exhaled, releasing the light. Aurilia sighed with him, but with relief. If she never had to face the Bane-Sidhe in his anger again, it would be perfectly fine with her. “We must be careful,” Niall agreed. “Our present state is the direct result of carelessness and overconfidence.”
Vidal grunted; Aurilia assumed it was in grudging agreement.
“Thus far,” Niall continued, shifting from side to side, restlessly, “the only one of the three of us who has brought plans to fruition scathlessly is you.”
“Well,” she replied, with a certain amount of hesitation, “I don't know about that.”
If Vidal gets his nose out of joint about this—
“The Bane-Sidhe is right,” Vidal growled. “It will take the three of us to achieve our goals, working together. We cannot afford to hare off with separate plans.”
It's about time you figured that out, she thought sourly. After all the work I've put in here.
“Since you have been working here for hours, I assume you have a plan,” Niall said pointedly.
Now, if ever, was the time to seize leadership, while momentum was behind her. Vidal was temporarily incapacitated and might be influenced; the Bane-Sidhe was already on her side, She gathered her composure, steadied her nerves, and nodded with all the authority she could command.
“Yes,” she said. “I do.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN
Tannim woke three or four times during the night as random sounds threw him out of dreams, but that was all that they were, pure random sounds, and he drifted back into sleep again. When he finally woke for good, he lay watching the darkness for a while, thinking about getting up for a long time before doing anything about it. Bed felt wonderful, and he wished, selfishly, that he could stay there for the rest of the day. He felt rested, and at the same time, tired—as if he had gone off sleep-fighting, or something. He'd had some strange dreams last night; images of fairy-tale bogeymen mixed up with a Tokomak accelerator, of Nightmares getting hit with Cruise missiles and exploding, and of Sam on a S.W.A.T. team, guarding a rainbow.
Weird.
There was no light at all in the bedroom, other than the clock on the VCR. The lighted numerals said 4:23—which meant it was about eleven. He hated having the damn thing blinking “12:00” at him, so he always reset it to some arbitrary time whenever the power went off or he had to unplug it.
There didn't seem to be any windows in the room. There was one, but he also hated daylight, which was why the floor-to-ceiling headboard blocked the window entirely, so that nothing could leak through.
So, it was about eleven. If he got up now, he could shower, shave, eat—pick out an appropriate outfit—and by one, when the people he wanted to see were in their offices, he'd be ready to see them.
He ran a systems-check on himself, first. About the only thing still not right was his leg, which twinged a little when he flexed it. It had healed about as much as it was likely to, so it always felt like that, except when he was in a hot-tub, so he ignored it and reached for the light in the headboard.
He fumbled around a little before his hand encountered the proper little round knob. It was on a dimmer-switch, which he brought up in microscopic increments. His last live-in lover had hated that, insisting on having bright light instantly in the morning. It was one of the reasons they hadn't stayed lovers for long, although they had parted friends.
His stomach growled impatiently, reminding him that it had been a long time since lunch—most of which he'd pushed off on Tania—and that corn-chips and vitamins were not an adequate substitute for dinner. Chinthliss railed on him constantly about his admittedly horrible diet. He pried himself up out of the bed and headed for the bathroom.
Being a mage means you're never out of hot water. . . .
One very long, very hot shower later, he felt a little more like a human, but not up to choosing clothing. Magery was a very diverse avocation, and some mages could change their form with a thought—but Tannim was not one of them, and so clothing was the closest to shape-changing he was going to get on this world. His choice of garments today would make all the difference in the success of his still-nebulous plan, if he was going to get the maximum clout with a minimum of questioning. He put off the decision and pulled a Salvation Army print caftan over his head. Making a selection that important should be done on a full stomach. Time to invoke the spirit of the microwave.
His last lover had been an excellent cook, and had left the freezer full of marvelous microwavable goodies for him, knowing that he would never cook for himself, and knowing that he often forgot to shop as well. Tannim had been making them last for a while, but now, if ever, was the time to dip into the stash. He poked his head into the freezer and contemplated the neatly calligraphed labels.
Calzone, Chicken Kiev, Veal Scaloppini, Chicken Cordon Bleu, Gad. Eggplant Parmesan, ick. That can't have been meant for me. Unless I was out of everything else and couldn't move. Maybe that was the idea. Ah, Huevos Rancheros. Perfect. But it needs something to go with it. Should end in a vowel . . . There, three-cheese zucchini. That'll do.