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Cerulean Sins :: Гамильтон Лорел
Страница: 20 из 352Everyone got a nice long glimpse of thigh, but it didn't really matter, I was about to do the thing that disturbed me themost since I stopped sacrificing poultry.
I held out my hand towards Gordon Bennington's face. "Drink, Gordon, drink of my blood and speak to us."
Those round, rolling eyes stared at me, then his sunken nose caught the scent of blood, and he grabbed my hand with both of his, and lowered his mouth to the wound. His hands felt like cold wax with sticks inside. His mouth was almost lipless, so his teeth pressed close in my flesh as he sucked at my hand. His tongue whipped back and forth on the wound like something separate and alive in his mouth, feeding from me.
I took a deep, steadying breath, breathe in and out, in and out. I would not be sick. Nope. I would not embarrass myself in front of this many people.
When I thought he'd had enough, I said, "Gordon Bennington."
He didn't react, but kept his mouth pressed to the wound, his hands clutching my wrist.
I tapped the top of his head gently with the side of the machete. "Mr. Bennington, people are waiting to talk to you."
I don't know if it was the words or the tap with the blade, but he looked up, and slowly began to pull back from my hand. His eyes held more of him now. The blood always seemed to do that, fill them back up with themselves.
"Are you Gordon Bennington?" I asked. We had to be all formal.
He shook his head.
The judge said, "We need you to answer out loud, Mr. Bennington, for the record."
He stared up at me. I repeated what the judge had said, and Bennington spoke, "I am, was, Gordon Bennington."
One of the upsides to raising the dead with only my blood was that they always knew they were dead. I'd raised some before where they didn't know that, and that was a bitch, telling someone that they were dead, and you were about to put them back in the grave. Real nightmare stuff, that was.
"How did you die, Mr. Bennington?" I asked.
He sighed, drawing in air, and I heard it whistle, because most of the right side of his chest was missing. The suit hid it, but I'd seen the forensic photos. Besides I knew what a mess a twelve-gauge shotgun makes at close range.
"I got shot."
There was a tension behind me, I could feel it over the buzz of the power circle. "How did you get shot?" I asked, voice calm, soothing.
"I shot myself going down the stairs to our basement."
There was a cry of triumph from one side of the crowd and an inarticulate scream from the other.
"Did you shoot yourself on purpose?" I asked.
"No, of course not. I tripped, gun went off, so stupid, really. So stupid.
I held out my hand towards Gordon Bennington's face. "Drink, Gordon, drink of my blood and speak to us."
Those round, rolling eyes stared at me, then his sunken nose caught the scent of blood, and he grabbed my hand with both of his, and lowered his mouth to the wound. His hands felt like cold wax with sticks inside. His mouth was almost lipless, so his teeth pressed close in my flesh as he sucked at my hand. His tongue whipped back and forth on the wound like something separate and alive in his mouth, feeding from me.
I took a deep, steadying breath, breathe in and out, in and out. I would not be sick. Nope. I would not embarrass myself in front of this many people.
When I thought he'd had enough, I said, "Gordon Bennington."
He didn't react, but kept his mouth pressed to the wound, his hands clutching my wrist.
I tapped the top of his head gently with the side of the machete. "Mr. Bennington, people are waiting to talk to you."
I don't know if it was the words or the tap with the blade, but he looked up, and slowly began to pull back from my hand. His eyes held more of him now. The blood always seemed to do that, fill them back up with themselves.
"Are you Gordon Bennington?" I asked. We had to be all formal.
He shook his head.
The judge said, "We need you to answer out loud, Mr. Bennington, for the record."
He stared up at me. I repeated what the judge had said, and Bennington spoke, "I am, was, Gordon Bennington."
One of the upsides to raising the dead with only my blood was that they always knew they were dead. I'd raised some before where they didn't know that, and that was a bitch, telling someone that they were dead, and you were about to put them back in the grave. Real nightmare stuff, that was.
"How did you die, Mr. Bennington?" I asked.
He sighed, drawing in air, and I heard it whistle, because most of the right side of his chest was missing. The suit hid it, but I'd seen the forensic photos. Besides I knew what a mess a twelve-gauge shotgun makes at close range.
"I got shot."
There was a tension behind me, I could feel it over the buzz of the power circle. "How did you get shot?" I asked, voice calm, soothing.
"I shot myself going down the stairs to our basement."
There was a cry of triumph from one side of the crowd and an inarticulate scream from the other.
"Did you shoot yourself on purpose?" I asked.
"No, of course not. I tripped, gun went off, so stupid, really. So stupid.