"Lawrence Watt-Evans - Spirit Dump" - читать интересную книгу автора (Watt-Evans Lawrence)

their souls, where he could blind them with thorns and let flies drink the blood and...
If he stepped back, that might be what the fiend wanted. There could be barbed metal spikes there,
spring-loaded spears that would thrust up into his belly, his groin. They'd missed him the first time, but
now the Roger-thing was trying to drive him back to where the traps, the other monsters, were waiting.
Little things with teeth and claws and shining bright eyes-- he could almost see them, behind him, on
either side, everywhere.
He didn't dare move.
But he didn't dare stay where he was, either. He began trembling, not merely with fear, but as he
struggled with himself over what to do.
He knew he could never defeat the monsters-- not just the Roger-thing, but all the others that must be
lurking up there out of sight, that had been hiding in among the trees. But maybe he could at least try,
maybe somebody would hear his screams as he tried to escape and they brought him down, fangs and
claws and sharp steel blades gleaming.
He lunged forward, and the fear lost its grip. He sprawled on the slope, his hand reaching the grass at
the top of the cliff, his face falling smack into the hangover that someone had thrown down just moments
earlier. The world spun, his head throbbed, Roger's shuffling footsteps were like huge grating sandpaper
sounds, like fingernails on a blackboard, but at least he wasn't terrified anymore.
Just nauseated.
Then someone had hold of his arm, and he was being pulled up, and he reluctantly managed to get his
feet under him and clamber up the last few feet onto the meadow. The hangover came with him, and he
blinked owlishly at his rescuers. The light hurt his eyes.
"Are you all right?" someone asked. He winced.
"Don't shout," he whispered.
Someone giggled. "I think he got my hangover," he said.
Paul nodded, then winced again as the movement made his headache worse. When the others
released his arms he sank down to sit cross-legged on the grass, where he gradually managed to pry the
hangover, bit by bit, out of his head and gut.
When he finally flung it back over the side it was as if the sun had burst through storm clouds, and he
took a deep, gasping breath in relief.
Then he sat for a moment, gathering his thoughts, as the others all huddled about him. He stuck a hand
in his pocket and pulled out a little wad of guilt.
He felt bad about what he was about to do-- but he told himself that was just the guilt, he didn't let it
stop him.
"Give me a hand," he said, reaching out.
Two people took his hands, one on each side, to help him up; when he was upright he made sure to
leave a little bit of guilt with each of them.
A little guilt never hurt anybody.
"Roger," he said, after quickly dipping his hand back in his pocket, "Thanks for pulling me up." He
reached out to shake hands.
Roger, a bit reluctantly, shook, and took a little guilt away with him.
Two others were clapped on the back.
The last of the group he didn't bother with; the poor woman looked guilty enough already. And he still
had a fair-sized lump in his pocket that would come in handy when he talked to Suze on Monday and
asked her to stop broadcasting about the place. He wasn't sure how he would store it that long, but he
was sure he could manage it.
"Bet you're glad to be out of there," someone said. "I'm really sorry if we caused you trouble."
"It's nothing," Paul said, "Really."
"Yeah, well," Roger said, "I wouldn't want to go down there! We could see your face-- it looked
awful."
"It wasn't so bad," Paul insisted.