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Mistrals Kiss :: Гамильтон Лорел
Страница: 116 из 148Gunshots echoed, and I saw Frost firing at Agnes as she threw herself ontop of him. I had a glimpse of her face; something was wrong with it, as if her bones were sliding around under her skin. I screamed, “Frost,” as a glint of metal showed in her hand. More shots sounded. Mistral was beside Frost, blades flashing.
“Doyle, stop!” I shouted.
He ignored me, and kept running with me in his arms. Abe and Rhys were with him.
“We can’t leave Frost behind!” I said.
Doyle said, “We cannot risk you, not for anyone.”
“Call a door,” Abe said.
Doyle glanced behind us, but not at Mistral and Frost’s fight with the night-hag. He glanced higher than that. It made me look up, too.
At first my eyes perceived clouds, black and grey rolling clouds, or smoke — but that was only my mind trying to make sense of it. I thought I had seen all the sluagh had to offer, but I was wrong. What was pouring down toward the island where Sholto stood was nothing my mind could accept. When I worked for the investigative agency…sometimes at a crime scene — if it’s bad enough — sometimes your mind refuses to make an image out of it. It’s just a jumble. Your mind gives you a moment to not see this horrible thing. If you have the chance to close your eyes and not look a second time, you can save yourself. This horror will not go into your mind and stain your soul. At most crime scenes I didn’t have the choice of not seeing. But this; I looked away. If we didn’t get away, then I’d have to look.
We had to get away.
Doyle yelled, “Don’t look. Call the door.”
I did what he asked. “I need a door to the Unseelie sithen.” The door appeared, hanging in the middle of nowhere, just like before.
“No doors,” Sholto screamed behind us.
The door vanished.
Rhys cursed.
Frost and Mistral were with us now. There was blood on their swords. I glanced back at the shore, and saw Agnes — a dark, still shape on the ground.
Doyle started running again, and the others joined us. “Call something else,” Abe said, near breathless trying to keep up with Doyle’s pace. “And do it quietly, so Sholto can’t hear what you’re doing.”
“What?” I asked.
“You have the power of creation,” he panted. “Use it.”
“How?” My brain wasn’t working under the pressure.
“Conjure something,” he said, and stumbled, falling. He rejoined us, blood pouring down his chest from a new cut.
“Let the ground be grass and gentle to our feet.” Grass flowed at our feet like green water.
“Doyle, stop!” I shouted.
He ignored me, and kept running with me in his arms. Abe and Rhys were with him.
“We can’t leave Frost behind!” I said.
Doyle said, “We cannot risk you, not for anyone.”
“Call a door,” Abe said.
Doyle glanced behind us, but not at Mistral and Frost’s fight with the night-hag. He glanced higher than that. It made me look up, too.
At first my eyes perceived clouds, black and grey rolling clouds, or smoke — but that was only my mind trying to make sense of it. I thought I had seen all the sluagh had to offer, but I was wrong. What was pouring down toward the island where Sholto stood was nothing my mind could accept. When I worked for the investigative agency…sometimes at a crime scene — if it’s bad enough — sometimes your mind refuses to make an image out of it. It’s just a jumble. Your mind gives you a moment to not see this horrible thing. If you have the chance to close your eyes and not look a second time, you can save yourself. This horror will not go into your mind and stain your soul. At most crime scenes I didn’t have the choice of not seeing. But this; I looked away. If we didn’t get away, then I’d have to look.
We had to get away.
Doyle yelled, “Don’t look. Call the door.”
I did what he asked. “I need a door to the Unseelie sithen.” The door appeared, hanging in the middle of nowhere, just like before.
“No doors,” Sholto screamed behind us.
The door vanished.
Rhys cursed.
Frost and Mistral were with us now. There was blood on their swords. I glanced back at the shore, and saw Agnes — a dark, still shape on the ground.
Doyle started running again, and the others joined us. “Call something else,” Abe said, near breathless trying to keep up with Doyle’s pace. “And do it quietly, so Sholto can’t hear what you’re doing.”
“What?” I asked.
“You have the power of creation,” he panted. “Use it.”
“How?” My brain wasn’t working under the pressure.
“Conjure something,” he said, and stumbled, falling. He rejoined us, blood pouring down his chest from a new cut.
“Let the ground be grass and gentle to our feet.” Grass flowed at our feet like green water.