Онлайн книга Dead Men's s Boots

I waited it out, knowing from past experience that there was no way of rushing this. Asmodeus rose or fell under his own steam and at his own pace: and the massive OPG hit, whimsically cross-connecting the circuitry of Rafi’s nervous system, wouldn’t help much either. But slow ripples began to pass across Rafi’s face, each one leaving it subtly altered. The effect was slow enough that you could convince yourself it was an optical illusion, but it didn’t much matter how you rationalised it: after half a minute or so, the fact was you were looking at a different face.

The new face, wearing Rafi’s features like a savagely ironic quote, stared at me with a sour grimace twisting one corner of its mouth.

‘Can’t hear the cavalry,’ Asmodeus said, sounding like he was crunching down on a mouthful of ground glass.

‘They’re coming,’ I answered, with more confidence than I felt. ‘In the meantime I was going to ask a favour.’

‘I love doing you favours, Castor. Come in a little closer. Kiss me on the lips.’

‘I want you to burrow down, as deep as you can.

Go all the way to sleep, if you can. I’ll play for you: listen to the music instead of trying to avoid it. Let it work through you, and use it to get as much distance from Rafi as you can.’

Asmodeus smiled politely. ‘And why should I do this thing?’

‘Because someone who looks like one of my species but acts like one of yours is coming to get you. And she’ll pick you to pieces with tweezers and she’ll mount you on slides and she’ll label all the pieces of you.

You know this is true.’

There was silence for a moment except for the puncturedtyre hissing of Asmodeus’s breath. ‘The bitch,’ he said at last, without heat. ‘The bitch with the fishing rod and the big ambitions. Whe› amhisn she hits the wall, it will make a very sweet sound.’

‘Maybe,’ I allowed. ‘Maybe not. She’s a crafty player, Asmodeus, and too fucking big for you right now.’

‘And for you, Castor.’

‘Goes without saying.’ Knowing what Asmodeus was, I felt seriously uncomfortable with all of this: almost, as though the phrase has any meaning at all, like a species-traitor.

I was discussing tactics with a demon, trying to keep him out of the hands of the closest thing the human race had to a predator of demons. This was what Jenna-Jane Mulbridge had brought me to, and at that moment I hated her for it.

‘The people outside need to see Rafi,’ I said, taking my whistle – it was the first alternate, and I hadn’t properly worn it in yet – out of my pocket.