"S. P. Somtow - Vampire Junction" - читать интересную книгу автора (Somtow S. P)

The voices have allayed his hunger for now. It is at such times that he wishes he could
weep. . .
He hears voices. "Perfect, chaps. But Miles, don't attack that top B flat so viciously in
your solo. Just let it grow naturally from the phrase. It's a nuisance, I know, having all these
extra choir practices, but with all these chaps dying in the war, and all these memorial
services, what can you do? Damn the Kaiser! Very well, that's all for tonight."
 The boys troop out, passing under the ornate archway of dark, oily wood that splits the
nave. They are giggling, irreverent. The Organ Scholar has come down from the loft and is
discussing something with the director; childish laughter and old men's whispers blend into
cavernous echoing.
The lights go out. The boy is alone. The dark is kind to his eyes. He must feed now.
He rises, making no noise.
He crosses the aisle, soundless as shadow.
He freezes. Somewhere hinges creak. He hears distant clattering. He dissolves behind
the altar's long shadow. Once, the cross, boy-tall, silver, crusted with amethysts, would
have caused him grief, but it is not a fervent age, and the symbols are losing their power.
Now he sees tiny lights, dancing, flickering, casting shadow-giants on the walls. An old
verger is leading a grotesque processional of men with black robes on which are
embroidered stars and moons and cabalistic signs and hieroglyphs, holding candles and
staves. The boy smells terror.
It comes from a young woman, bound and gagged, whom they are dragging behind
them. Two young acolytes, mere boys, bring up the rear, swinging censers that exude a
stench of perfume and charred flesh.
The boy remembers such things from a past better forgotten. He peers from the pool
of darkness.
The celebrants are giggling. This is no genuine rite of the old ones, but some game they
are playing. The young boys run in front now, scattering the foul smoke everywhere.
"Thank you, Sullivan," says one of the robed ones. He appears to be tipping the verger,
who slinks away, leering at the woman.
"You're sure she can't be traced?" says a plump Asian man.
"A waitress at the Copper Kettle," says the first, the tall one with a paper mitre on
which is painted a crude skull and other sigils. The girl flails about helplessly as they bind
her to the altar. Her arm has almost brushed the boy; his hand has stolen the warmth from
hers. He is invisible to them, for he has cloaked himself in darkness.
They are all laughing now. "Be solemn for a moment, won't you!" the leader cries.
"This is serious business." Laughter breaks out again, stifles itself.
"What a nuisance the incense was! Are you sure this nauseating concoction is quite
necessary?"
"The Book of the Order of the Gods of Chaos absolutely specifies that the
frankincense be mixed with the caul of an unborn child," the leader says sternly. "I had little
enough trouble with our friends in the medical laboratory." The boys are running gleefully
about now, and the fumes are thick and pungent. The girl coughs through the gag.
"Perhaps we shouldn't really—"
"Silence, novice!" says the leader. He pulls a knife from his robe. Now the boy senses
the terror in all of them. "This is serious, I tell you, the summoning of a presence—"
Inside, the boy laughs bitterly. He knows that the presences are long dead, if they ever
existed. Only their shadows have survived the dark times. They are hypocrites, these
humans, they know nothing of my bitterness, my grief. And now the girl will die for it.
The leader has stalked to the altar, knife upraised, the blade catching the candlelight.
Quickly the young vampire blends into the shadows.