"Mercedes Lackey - Urban Fantasies" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lackey Mercedes)

She was too startled to do anything except stare at her hands and the pale blue light. A wave of dizziness
hit her, and that strange feeling of hot power, like electricity running through her entire body—she could
feel the hair on her forearms standing on end, her hands tingling faintly where the light touched her.

Oh my . . . oh my God . . .

The light faded away. She stared at her fingers, and through them, saw the gunman shaking his head
slowly, as though he couldn't believe what he'd just seen.
 Then she saw his hands tighten on the rifle and knew that in another split-second he'd shoot them
anyhow. . . .

Kayla didn't even think about it; she dived for him and that gun, sending both of them crashing into a
rack of magazines. She tried to pull the gun out of his grip; he shoved her, hard, and she fell back against
the blond woman's body, which gave way beneath her. She landed on the floor; her head hit hard against
the linoleum. She blinked; the barrel of the gun was only inches from her face . . . she could see the man,
smiling with delight, as his finger tightened on the trigger. . . .

Billy slammed into the gunman with a football tackle. The gun went off again, gunshots echoing through
the small store. A bullet zinged past Kayla to impact the floor next to her.

She lay there for a moment, concentrating on breathing, then climbed unsteadily to her feet. Her legs
were shaking so much she could barely stand as she moved to where Billy and the man were both lying
motionless on the floor.

Billy was still alive, blood slowly staining through his shirt and jeans. She could see where the bullets had
hit him, one in his leg, another in his shoulder. The shoulder wound was the worst, blood welling out in a
wide stain down his side and onto the floor.

She wanted to scream, but knew there wasn't time for it. Billy was always the one who knew exactly
what to do in a bad situation; she had to think the way he did, do something fast before all of his life
spilled out onto the floor.

She tried to remember what first aid you were supposed to do for gunshot wounds. Applying pressure
to stop the bleeding, that was the only thing she could think of. And shock—you had to cover them with
a blanket or something so they'd stay warm. She didn't have a blanket, or anything to use on the wound .
. . she pressed her hand against the ripped skin and shirt on Billy's shoulder. Blood flowed out around her
fingers, more with every heartbeat.

This isn't working. . . .

She pressed harder. “It isn't working,” she whispered. She looked up suddenly at Liane, still standing by
the candy racks. “Go get help, damn it!” she yelled. Liane didn't move: she was standing -silently, staring
at Kayla . . . at Kayla's hands . . .

. . . at the tendrils of blue light, twisting around her fingertips. The light brightened as she looked at it,
radiating out from her hands, moving in rippling circles over Billy's shoulder and chest. Suddenly she saw
Billy's wound -beneath her hands, through her hands, as though she was a ghost. No, it wasn't -exactly
seeing . . . it wasfeeling, knowing, sensing the tears through the skin and muscle, the pressure of the tiny
bullet lodged against the bone . . .so small, to do so much damage! The bullet, a little squashed piece of
metal, was buried beneath a layer of muscle—she reached the part of her mind that was sensing all of this