"Christopher Pike - The Last Vampire 01 - The Last Vampire" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pike Christopher)

I lay Riley to rest six feet under and cover him over a matter of minutes without even a whisper of a
prayer. Who would I pray to anyway? Krishna? I could very well tellhim that I was sorry, although I did
him that once, after holding the jewel of his life inmy bloodthirsty hands while he casually brought to our
wild party. No, I think, Krishna would not answer to my prayer, even if it was for the soul of one of my
victims. Krishna would just laugh and return to his flute. To the song of life as he called it. But where was
the music for those his followers said were already worse than dead? Where was the joy? No, I would
not pray to God for Riley.

Not even for Riley's son.

In my home, in my new mansion by the sea, late at night, I stare at the boy's photo and wonder why he
is so familiar to me. His brown eyes are enchanting, so wide and innocent, yet as alert as those of a baby
owl seen in the light of the full moon. I wonder if in the days to come I will be burying him beside his
father. The thought saddens me. I don't know why.

2



I do not need much sleep, two hours at most, which I usually take when the sun is at its brightest.
Sunlightdoes affect me, although it is not the mortal enemy Bram Stoker imagined in his tale of Count
Dracula. I read the novelDracula when it first came out, in ten minutes. I have a photographic memory
with a hun-dred percent comprehension. I found the book deli-cious. Unknown to Mr. Stoker, he got to
meet a real vampire when I paid him a visit one dreary English evening in the year 1899. I was very
sweet to him. I asked him to autograph my book and gave him a big kiss before I left. I almost drank
some of his blood, I was tempted, but I thought it would have ruined any chance he would have had at
writing a sequel, which I encouraged him to do. Humans are seldom able to dwell for any length on things
that truly terrify them, even though the horror writers of the present think otherwise. But Stoker was a
perceptive man; he knew there was something unusual about me. I believe he had a bit of a crush on me.

But the sun, the eternal flame in the sky, it dimin-ishes my powers. During the day, particularly when the
sun is straight up, I often feel drowsy, not so tired that I am forced to rest but weary enough that I lose
my enthusiasm for things. Also, I am not nearly so quick or strong during the day, although I am still more
than a match for any mortal. I do not enjoy the day as much as the night. I love the blurred edges of
darker landscapes. Sometimes I dream of visiting Pluto.

Yet the next day I am busy at dawn. First I call the three businessmen responsible for handling my
accounts--each located on a different continent-- and tell them I am displeased to learn that my finances
have been examined. I listen to each protestation of innocence and detect no falsehood in their voices.
My admiration for Mr. Riley's detecting abilities climbs a notch. He must have used subtle means to delve
into my affairs.

Or else he'd had help.

Of course I know he had help, but I also believe he turned against the man who sent him to find me.
When he realized how rich I was, he must have thought that he could score more handsomely by going
after me directly. That leads me to suspect that whoever hired Riley does not know the exact details of
my life, where I live and such. But I also realize he will notice Riley's disappearance and come looking for
whoever killed him. I have time, I believe, but not much. By nature, I prefer to be the hunter, not the