Son of the Shadows. Nancy Holder

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      Izzy screamed.

      The mud to her left geysered upward in a plume; the bayou water to her right shot straight up as if from a broken fire hydrant. The ground beneath her feet shook so violently that she dropped to her knees. Instinctively she flattened against the mud, shouting, “Incoming! Incoming! Duck and cover!” As soon as she was stable, she made a tripod with her elbows and shot off another round with her Medusa.

      Its report was soundless, but she’d hit a target: something in the darkness bellowed with pain. As if in reply, scarlet pinwheels of light blossomed above drooping cypress treetops, obliterating the moon. White and red flares peppered the landscape like dueling fireworks. She shot off more rounds, having no idea what was coming yet sure that they meant to kill her.

      They who? What’s happening?

      Something sizzled along the length of her body, breaking her concentration. She looked down as a catsuit and body armor appeared fully formed on her body. She yelled and batted at it, but it was on to stay, and after a couple of seconds she realized it wasn’t hurting her in any way and was preferable to being naked. It was identical to Jean-Marc’s except that on the bicep of the clinging second-skin, there was some kind of patch depicting a trio of white flames that looked very familiar.

      I belong here, she thought, jerking as a layer of deep indigo light completely surrounded her. Oh, my God, is that my aura?

      “Protect yourself!” Jean-Marc leaped in front of her, his back to her as he spread his legs wide and shot off rounds from an Uzi he hadn’t had before. He followed them with one of the balls of fire he could make with his hands. “Make a shield now!”

      She had no idea what he was talking about, and no time to wonder about it, as an incoming blur of white light slammed into the field of blue. Panic turned her blood to ice as she caught her breath, ducked her head and pulled the trigger—realizing too late that Jean-Marc stood directly in her line of fire.

      “Arête!” he yelled at her, as he dove for the mud. Landing on his belly, he rolled onto his left elbow, his face contorted in a combination of terror and fury. A ball of fire erupted from his right hand, engulfing the space between them. Heat slapped her icy face and she reflexively looped her finger around the trigger as he lobbed a second fireball. A tiny object pierced the center of the fiery globe and exploded—it was her 9 mm cartridge—and he chanted in a language she didn’t understand, speaking rapidly and firmly as he pointed his fingers at her.

      Invisible hands grabbed her and propelled her into the air. Five feet above his prone body, she hovered in smoke for a few heartbeats, and then she plummeted, landing beside him in the mud. Shifting patterns of blue and black undulated in her field of vision as he flung his arm around her and pressed her to the ground.

      “Don’t shoot at me!”

      She smelled oranges, roses, hot metal, oil and something else—blood and death. He moved his fingers in a circle and the gun shot out of her grasp. She lunged for it as he grabbed it out of the air.

      “Give that back!” she bellowed, lunging at him, slithering and sliding in the mud as she scrambled over his body and grabbed at the gun. He wrapped his free hand around her forearm, pushed himself to a standing position and dragged her toward the closest tangle of bayou undergrowth. When the catsuit and armor had appeared, so had boots; inside them, her stockinged feet were cut and bleeding. He turned to her, rage spinning in his dark, hooded eyes. His white teeth were clenched and he looked horrifically feral, more like an animal than a man. His chest began to heave, his hand to tighten around her arm. Painfully.

      “Ow,” she blurted, her knees buckling.

      Glaring at her like a madman, he held her upright and shook her hard. Her head snapped back and forth; blindly she batted at him, then began to kick at his shins, slipping and sliding over wet leaves and wetter earth as he kept her gun out of reach. His hard features blazed with fury and he shook her again, hard.

      “You shouldn’t have done it. He shouldn’t have let you.” He was growling the words at her. “I could just…by the Grey King…je suis fou…” He bared his teeth and cold, hard fear smacked against each vertebra in her spine like a steel mallet on ice cubes.

      He’s inhuman, she thought. Werewolf. Monster.

      “Jean-Marc, calme-toi,” said a voice behind them—the dark-skinned man with the dreadlocks, Alain, had appeared and was sprawled on the ground beside the woman she had shot. The other man, Andre, had fallen down beside him. “Find your center. Pull yourself out of the blackness. I need help here. Caresse is dying.”

      Jean-Marc whipped around, whirling her behind him like a rag doll as Andre erupted into an eardrum-shattering barrage of howls. His face began to lengthen; his eyes, to glow golden and fierce. His backbone popped through his skin as glossy, silvery-black fur sprouted in tufts along his face, his chest, his abdomen, his thighs. His fingernails stretched into claws.

      Weaving and transforming, he lurched toward Jean-Marc and her. Where a man had stood, a hunched, demonic creature covered with glossy black fur roared at her and clacked the air with its elongating jaw.

      Jean-Marc remained in front of her as deep indigo surrounded her. She looked through it, as if it were a veil draped in front of her face; then wisps of black drifted across her field of vision, like tattered lace or lazing smoke. Her ears buzzed; her skin burned and tingled as if she had fallen into a snowbank. Acid flooded her mouth. Rigid with fear, she stiffened and stumbled backward.

      Hide, stay away, a voice whispered urgently.

      She knew she mustn’t let the blackness touch her. And yet something from deep within her urged her forward, tempted her to reach out her hand to it, let it taste of her, caress her…

      It СКАЧАТЬ