Онлайн книга Thicker Than Water

I didn’t look around, but I felt the pressure of her gaze o“e ofonn me."

"‘I mean,’ I said, ‘don’t get me wrong here, okay? If this is another of those off-limits topics, just tell me. But if it’s not, I wouldn’t mind knowing. Does this thing that makes people cut themselves into ribbons so it can nest in the torn flesh go way back with you? Is it a friend of the family? Did it bounce you on its knee when you were a little girl?’

We’d gone another couple of miles before she spoke, and I’d stopped waiting for an answer.

‘They’re called the Oleuthroi. And I’ve never met this one before. In fact, I haven’t seen any of his breed for twelve centuries. And the last one I saw was an adult, very old, enormous, that I and my sisters rousted up in the fields of Varhedre and killed for sport.’ Juliet’s voice was eerily distant, as if thinking about the past had carried her back there in some way.

‘They’re very rare,’ she said, and then paused. ‘Now. Now they’re rare. It wasn’t always so.’

‘And what, you’re into conservation? They’re an endangered species?’

Juliet was silent for a while.

‘I tried my hand at exorcising this thing before I came away from the estate,’ she said at last, returning her gaze to the road ahead. ‘Without result. I’ve told you what I can, Castor. More than I should. Be grateful. Or at the very least, be quiet.’

We said no more to each other. When I pulled up in front of Susan’s house, Juliet got out without saying a word: I thought, but couldn’t be sure, that I saw her turning away from Susan’s door and heading off into the night, which embraced her as eagerly as ever.

By the time I got back to Pen’s, it was after midnight. I called Jean Daniels, which I should have done from the hospital: to explain why I hadn’t been in touch and to ask her how Bic was.

More or less the same, was the answer. He slept a lot, and when he was awake he drifted in and out of his right mind - talking in his own voice one moment and in a strange polyglot growl the next.

‘And now you’re going away?’ Jean asked, dismayed.

‘For a day,’ I said. ‘Two days, tops. I’m looking for Anita Yeats. I think she might know something that could help both your son and my brother.’

‘Know something about what, Mister Castor?’ Jean demanded. She sounded plaintive, and it made my stomach churn to be letting her down like this.

‘Two separate somethings,’ I admitted.