"Freda Warrington - A Taste of Blood Wine" - читать интересную книгу автора (Warrington Freda)

Charlotte was utterly helpless, she could not save them from the
dark birds that bore down inexorably on vast black wings. But she
would not desert them. She stopped and faced the creatures, and the
agony of waiting became an electric heaviness in the pit of her
stomach. Strangely thrilling, it felt, as if she dreaded the raptors and
desired them at the same time. Distance had made them seem slow;
but God, they were flying so fast and their dark evil faces were
filling the sky. Then their mouths opened and the steaming red coils
of their tongues came lashing out…
Every organ of her body tightened and she awoke, gagging with
fear. Yet mingled with the nightmare she experienced a pleasure so
intense that it left her breathless, shocked.
The darkness oppressed her, a warm breathing weight from which
she could not struggle free… drenched in sweat, she found herself
sitting up in bed, in the act of switching on the bedside lamp before
she was properly awake.
She sat gasping for breath, her whole body a mass of pins and
needles. Gradually the racing of her heart began to ease.
The light shone dim and warm on the oak panelling. A moody
room, which sometimes seemed homely and comforting, at others
full of dark, frightening corners. It seemed alien now, through the
veil of night terror. Charlotte knew the nightmare was due to her
fever, but the heavy spell wouldn't break. She glanced at the clock;
three in the morning. Picking up the photograph of her mother that
stood on the bedside table, she lay back and studied it.
Charlotte could hardly remember her mother, yet she missed her. It

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A Taste


was at times like this that she would have liked her there, to make
her feel safe. And sometimes she was sure her mother was actually
beside her, the cool hand on her forehead not imagined but truly
felt. It will be all right, darling. Go to sleep.
The portrait was more an icon than a real memory; she seemed so
far away, this slender, stately woman in Edwardian clothes. An
unusual face, slightly too long but balanced by large, deep-lidded
eyes, a full-lipped mouth. The nose was short and delicate.
Although her expression was solemn, a slight lack of symmetry in
the features made her look girlish, exquisitely pretty under a mass
of shining hair. The faded sepia had been hand-tinted with coloured
inks. The eyes were a rich violet-grey, the hair a warm brown
frosted with golden-blonde.
Charlotte knew the colours were true, because she was the image of
her mother.
Annette Neville had died giving birth to her last child, Madeleine.
Charlotte had been less than two years old then, too small to
remember much, yet there were fleeting impressions that remained;
a swish of long skirts, cool white hands. Her father and mother