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Cerulean Sins :: Гамильтон Лорел
Страница: 116 из 352He was standing there in his baby blue T-shirt, his peaceful face behind the mirrored shades, but the energy trickled off of him, raised the skin along my arms in a nervous creep.
He looked so harmless, pleasant. But if you had the ability to sense what he was, he was suddenly not harmless, or pleasant.
"What's with you?" I whispered.
"Don't you smell it?" his voice was a hoarse whisper.
"Smell what?"
"Meat, blood."
Shit. "No," I said, but of course his creeping energy along my skin raised my own beast, like a ghost in my gut. That phantom shape stretched inside me like some great cat waking from a long nap, and I did smell it. Not just blood, Jason was right, meat. Blood smells sort of sweet and metallic like old pennies, or nickels, but a lot of blood smells like hamburger. You know it's going to be bad, really bad, when a human being is reduced to the smell of so much ground meat.
My head lifted, and I sniffed the air, drew in a great breath of air and tested it. My foot was on the bottom step of the stairs before I came to myself. "It's upstairs." I whispered it.
"Yes," Jason said, and there was the thinnest edge of growl to his voice. If someone didn't know what they were listening to, they'd have thought his voice was just deeper than normal. But I knew what I was hearing.
"What's happening?" I asked, and I was still whispering, I think because I didn't want to be overheard. Maybe that was why Jason was whispering, or maybe not. I didn't ask. If he was fighting the urge to run upstairs and roll around in the murder scene, I did not want to know.
I hugged my arms, trying to rub away the goosebumps. "Let's go get those gloves," I said.
He looked at me, and even through the glasses I could feel him struggling to remember what I was saying, or rather what the words meant.
"Don't go all preverbal on me, Jason, I need you here with me."
He took a deep breath that seemed to come from the soles of his feet and slide out the top of his head. His shoulders hunched then straightened like he was trying to shake something off.
"I'm okay."
"You sure?" I asked.
"I can do it, if you can."
I frowned at that. "Am I going to have more trouble?"
"I don't have to go up into that room, you do."
I sighed. "I am so tired of this shit."
"Which shit?" he asked.
"All of it."
He smiled. "Come on, marshal, let's go get those gloves."
I shook my head, but I led the way through the dining room towards the kitchen. I could see the box of gloves sitting beside an open, nearly full trash bag.
He looked so harmless, pleasant. But if you had the ability to sense what he was, he was suddenly not harmless, or pleasant.
"What's with you?" I whispered.
"Don't you smell it?" his voice was a hoarse whisper.
"Smell what?"
"Meat, blood."
Shit. "No," I said, but of course his creeping energy along my skin raised my own beast, like a ghost in my gut. That phantom shape stretched inside me like some great cat waking from a long nap, and I did smell it. Not just blood, Jason was right, meat. Blood smells sort of sweet and metallic like old pennies, or nickels, but a lot of blood smells like hamburger. You know it's going to be bad, really bad, when a human being is reduced to the smell of so much ground meat.
My head lifted, and I sniffed the air, drew in a great breath of air and tested it. My foot was on the bottom step of the stairs before I came to myself. "It's upstairs." I whispered it.
"Yes," Jason said, and there was the thinnest edge of growl to his voice. If someone didn't know what they were listening to, they'd have thought his voice was just deeper than normal. But I knew what I was hearing.
"What's happening?" I asked, and I was still whispering, I think because I didn't want to be overheard. Maybe that was why Jason was whispering, or maybe not. I didn't ask. If he was fighting the urge to run upstairs and roll around in the murder scene, I did not want to know.
I hugged my arms, trying to rub away the goosebumps. "Let's go get those gloves," I said.
He looked at me, and even through the glasses I could feel him struggling to remember what I was saying, or rather what the words meant.
"Don't go all preverbal on me, Jason, I need you here with me."
He took a deep breath that seemed to come from the soles of his feet and slide out the top of his head. His shoulders hunched then straightened like he was trying to shake something off.
"I'm okay."
"You sure?" I asked.
"I can do it, if you can."
I frowned at that. "Am I going to have more trouble?"
"I don't have to go up into that room, you do."
I sighed. "I am so tired of this shit."
"Which shit?" he asked.
"All of it."
He smiled. "Come on, marshal, let's go get those gloves."
I shook my head, but I led the way through the dining room towards the kitchen. I could see the box of gloves sitting beside an open, nearly full trash bag.