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ЧИТАТЬ КНИГУ ОНЛАЙН: The Fall of the Hotel Dumort
It was a bit of a twee remark, but it seemed to delight his seat companion on the plane. The comment had been a bit of a test, actually. Now she was leaning over him, her winged blond hair dipping into his champagne glass, her neck reeking of Eau de Guerlain. The faint trace of white powder still clung to her nose. He could have done this trip in seconds by stepping through a Portal, but there was something pleasant about aircraft. They were charming, intimate, and slow. You got to meet people. Magnus liked meeting people. Magnus looked down at his red-plaid-and-black-vinyl oversize suit with a shredded T-shirt underneath. The best clubs. She dug around in her massive purse—and stopped for a moment when she found her cigarettes. She shoved one of these between her lips, lit it, and continued digging until she produced a small tortoiseshell card case. Soooo much better than Studio Excuse me a second. You want? The mundanes had gotten very interested in drugs again. They went through these phases. Now it was cocaine. Drugs had never interested Magnus. A good wine, absolutely, but he steered clear of potions and powders and pills. Also, people who did drugs were boring. Hopelessly, relentlessly boring. Drugs made them either too slow or too fast, and mostly they talked about drugs. And then they either quit—a gruesome process—or they died. There was never a step in between. Like all mundane phases, this too would pass. Hopefully soon. He closed his eyes and decided to sleep his way across the Atlantic. London was behind him. Now it was time to go home. New York was too damn hot in the summer. It was just touching a hundred degrees, and the smell of jet fuel and exhaust fumes mixed with the swampy gasses that hung around this far tip of the city. The smell, he knew, would only get worse. The cab was as comfortable as any metal box in the sun, and his sweating driver added to the general perfume in the air. The cabbie grunted and hit the meter, and then they pulled out into traffic. He lifted a finger and redirected it out the window. The road from JFK to Manhattan was a strange one, weaving through family neighborhoods, and desolate stretches, and past sprawling graveyards. It was an age-old tradition. Keep the dead out of the city—but not too far. London, where he had just been, was ringed with old graveyards. Past all of the New York neighborhoods and graveyards, at the end of the crowded expressway, shimmering in the distance—there was Manhattan—its spires and peaks just lighting up for the night. From death to life. He had just been going to take the briefest trip to Monte Carlo. A week in Monte Carlo turns into two on the Riviera, which turns into a month in Paris, and two months in Tuscany, and then you end up on a boat headed for Greece, and then you wind up back in Paris again for the season, and then you go to Rome for a bit, and London. Calls himself Son of Sam. They called him the forty-four-caliber killer too. Sick bastard. Real sick. Even at nightfall the heat was stifling. Still, it seemed to encourage a party atmosphere in the neighborhood. It seemed that in his absence things had taken on a whole new level of festivity. Costumed men walked down the street. The outdoor cafes were swarming. There was a carnival atmosphere that Magnus found instantly inviting. He let himself in and sprang lightly up the steps, full of high spirits. His spirits fell when he reached his landing. The first thing he noticed, right by his door, was a strong and bad smell—something rotten, mixed with something like skunk, mixed with other things he had no desire to identify. Magnus did not live in a stinky apartment. His apartment smelled of clean floors, flowers, and incense. He put the key into the lock, and when he tried to push the door open, it stuck. He had to shove it hard to get it to open. The reason was immediately clear—there were boxes of empty wine bottles on the other side. And, much to his surprise, the television was on. Four vampires were crashed on his sofa, blankly watching cartoons. He knew they were vampires at once. The draining of the color behind the skin, the languid pose. All of them had dried bits of the stuff around their faces. There was a record spinning on the player. It had reached the end and was stuck on the blank end strip, hissing gently in disapproval. Вы можете отметить интересные вам фрагменты текста, которые будут доступны по уникальной ссылке в адресной строке браузера. Любовная фантастика. Вы читаете The Fall of the Hotel Dumort. Добавить отзыв.
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ЧИТАТЬ КНИГУ ОНЛАЙН: The Fall of the Hotel Dumort
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