Blood of the Sorceress. Maggie Shayne

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СКАЧАТЬ SUVs, and the limousine and Jaguar Gus had mentioned. And then some of those sports cars that made his pulse speed up. A Mustang. A 370Z. A Carrera.

      He tried to see himself behind the wheel, but every one of his imaginary vehicles had that blonde sitting in the passenger seat. Every glimpse of her made his heart rate speed up and his nerve endings jump with fear. Who was she? And why was he afraid of her?

      There was more tingling going on. It was happening behind him this time, near his hip, where his silver chalice hung in its own plastic bag. He quickly ripped the bag open, tearing it in the process, which meant he would have to find another one. He took the cup out and looked inside it, where the light was coming from. It was filled with … something. Swirling colors, and … was that a face taking shape?

      Do as I tell you, Demetrius.

      “Who said that?” He looked left and right, then turned to look behind, too, but there was no one there.

      “Who said what?” Gus asked.

      Demetrius looked at his friend, saw the worry forming in the old man’s eyes. “Didn’t you hear that? A woman. Kind of whispering.”

      Gus took a step backward. “What’d she say?”

      “She said to do what she tells me.”

      “Then do it, boy, there’s magic goin’ on here! And keep visualizing. Don’t you stop. Make sure I’m in it. Don’t leave me out, D.”

      Demetrius tried to keep visualizing his own personal den of pleasures, tried to keep seeing Gus as a part of it, but that damned blue-eyed blonde kept popping in everywhere. She was in the sprawling living room with its wall-sized gas fireplace and in the theater room with its giant movie screen. She was sprawled invitingly on his giant four-poster bed’s satin sheets.

      The knife in his hand was getting hot and feeling kind of jumpy. And the cup was vibrating, swirling.

      Lower the dagger into the chalice and say these words.

      “She wants me to put the knife into the cup,” Demetrius said.

      “Well? Do it!” Gus stomped his foot. “Do it, damn you.”

      Demetrius flipped the dagger so the point was aiming downward and moved it over the cup. Actually, he didn’t have to move it, because it felt as if something was pulling his hand toward that big sparkling mug. He started lowering the blade. It seemed to want to move slowly, so he let it—whatever it was—guide his hand.

      Say these words as you lower it, she told him. As the rod is to the God, so the chalice is to the Goddess.

      “That’s stupid. I’m not saying that. It doesn’t even make any—”

       Say it!

      “All right. All right. As the rod is to the God …”

      “Huh?” Gus asked. “What’s this now?”

      “It’s what she wants me to say. ‘As the rod is to the God.’”

      “What for?”

      “How the hell do I know what for?”

      So the chalice is to the Goddess. Say it, Demetrius.

      “So the chalice is to the Goddess.”

      And together they are one.

      “And together they are one.” As he said it, the cup pulled the blade down like a super magnet, and the tip of the blade clanked against the bottom of the chalice. There was a big flash of light, and some kind of sonic boom that blew him back toward the mouth of the alley. Gus’s eyes got huge as he backpedaled to join him, and then they both just stood there, staring at the fast-fading glowing orb.

      And then it blinked out and there she was, that blonde. She was crouching in the alley, completely naked, and everything in Demetrius told him to turn and run like hell. But he couldn’t seem to move. He just stood there, staring at her.

      Slowly she stood and lifted her head to look straight at him, and those blue, blue eyes hit him like a pair of lightning bolts.

      He felt sheer terror. His gaze roamed up and down her lithe, naked form, pale skin, small, perky breasts. Everything about her was small. She was like a fairy or an angel.

      “I’m no angel, Demetrius,” she said, as if reading his mind. “I’m a witch.”

      He dropped his precious blade and chalice, spun around and ran out of that alley as if the devil was after him, because it seemed as if she was.

      He never saw the car that hit him. But he sure as hell felt it.

      In a private hospital on the shore of Cayuga Lake, an old priest who’d been in a coma since early November suddenly opened his eyes.

      A nurse was bathing him, running a warm, wet sponge up and down his arms as if she had the right to touch him. He gripped her wrist, and she gasped and dropped the cloth, her wide eyes darting to his face.

      “A little help in here!” she called.

      He gave her a shove, and she stumbled backward, crashing into a shiny metal tray, knocking it and the instruments it held noisily to the floor. Others came, but he was busy by then, staring at his bony arms and concave chest with its curling white hairs and pale skin. How had he become so thin? So old? So frail? He’d been robust. He’d been plump and lush. Beautiful, really.

      Ah, yes, but this wasn’t his body. His own body was long dead. This body might not even be capable of walking upright, but it was going to have to do. He’d known he would return when the time came, but he’d let himself forget how frail the host he’d chosen had become.

      He peeled back the bedcovers and managed to sit up as the woman came closer again, holding out her hands, flanked by another female and a young man. Pretty thing, too, with his blond hair cut so that its short layers resembled feathers. How did he get it to do that?

      “Easy, now, Father Dom. Easy,” the first woman said.

      She did not speak his language. At first her words sounded like gibberish, but then, amazingly, his mind processed them and he understood what she was saying. That made sense, he supposed. The brain in this body knew the language. He wondered what else it knew.

      There were racks on either side of his bed, barriers to keep him from falling out. He gripped one of them in his bony hands and tried to remove it, but it would not budge. He was too weak.

      And then a mature man entered the room and came right to the bedside. He was not a pretty boy but a person of standing—one could tell these things by a man’s bearing, his walk, the tilt of his head. He had the dark skin of the desert lands, the black hair, the deep brown eyes. He extended a hand.

      “Father Dominick, I’m Doctor Assad. I’m here to help you. Do you understand?”

      He nodded and stared at the hand the man held out to him, trying to guess what to do, before slowly extending his own. The doctor took it, closing his own around it, pumping once, letting go.

      “Good, СКАЧАТЬ