JК
The Killing Dance :: Гамильтон Лорел
Страница: 243 из 285His shirt was a deep, rich blue, not quite dark enough to be navy, the sleeves were full, with wide cuffs, the collar high but soft, almost as if it were a scarf. I'd never seen him in blue of any shade. It made his midnight blue eyes seem bluer, darker. His jeans were black and tight enough to be skin, the boots were knee-high, with a trailing edge of black leather that flopped as he moved.
He knelt beside me, not touching me, almost like he was afraid to. " Ma petite , your cross."
I stared down at it. It wasn't glowing, not yet. I wrapped my hand around the cross and jerked, snapping the chain. I flung it away. It fell against the wall, glinting silver in the faint light. "Happy?"
Jean-Claude looked at me. "Richard lives. Marcus is dead. Correct?"
I nodded.
"Then why the tears, Ma petite ? I do not think I have ever seen you cry."
"I am not crying."
He touched my cheek with one fingertip and came away with a single tear trembling on the end of his finger. He raised it to his lips, the tip of his tongue licked it off his skin. "You taste like your heart has broken, Ma petite ."
My throat choked tight. I couldn't breathe past the tears. The harder I tried not to cry, the faster the tears flowed. I hugged myself, and my hands touched the sticky gunk that covered me. I held my hands away from my body like I'd touched something unclean. I stared at Jean-Claude with my hands held out in front of me.
" Mon Dieu , what has happened?" He tried to hug me, but I pushed him away.
"You'll get it all over you."
He stared at the thick, clear gunk on his hand. "How did you get this close to a shapeshifting werewolf?" An idea flowed across his face. "It's Richard. You saw him change."
I nodded. "He changed on top of me. It was. . Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God."
Jean-Claude pulled me into his arms. I pushed at him. "You'll ruin your clothes."
" Ma petite, Ma petite , it's all right. It is all right."
"No, it's not." I sagged against him. I let him wrap me in his arms. I clutched at him, hands digging into the silk of his shirt. I buried my face against his chest and whispered, "He ate Marcus. He ate him."
"He's a werewolf, Ma petite . That's what they do."
It was such an odd thing to say, and so terribly true, that I laughed—an abrupt, almost angry sound. The laughter died in choking, and the choking became sobs.
I held onto Jean-Claude like he was the last sane thing in the world. I buried myself against him and wept. It was like something deep inside me had broken, and I was crying out bits of myself onto his body.
He knelt beside me, not touching me, almost like he was afraid to. " Ma petite , your cross."
I stared down at it. It wasn't glowing, not yet. I wrapped my hand around the cross and jerked, snapping the chain. I flung it away. It fell against the wall, glinting silver in the faint light. "Happy?"
Jean-Claude looked at me. "Richard lives. Marcus is dead. Correct?"
I nodded.
"Then why the tears, Ma petite ? I do not think I have ever seen you cry."
"I am not crying."
He touched my cheek with one fingertip and came away with a single tear trembling on the end of his finger. He raised it to his lips, the tip of his tongue licked it off his skin. "You taste like your heart has broken, Ma petite ."
My throat choked tight. I couldn't breathe past the tears. The harder I tried not to cry, the faster the tears flowed. I hugged myself, and my hands touched the sticky gunk that covered me. I held my hands away from my body like I'd touched something unclean. I stared at Jean-Claude with my hands held out in front of me.
" Mon Dieu , what has happened?" He tried to hug me, but I pushed him away.
"You'll get it all over you."
He stared at the thick, clear gunk on his hand. "How did you get this close to a shapeshifting werewolf?" An idea flowed across his face. "It's Richard. You saw him change."
I nodded. "He changed on top of me. It was. . Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God."
Jean-Claude pulled me into his arms. I pushed at him. "You'll ruin your clothes."
" Ma petite, Ma petite , it's all right. It is all right."
"No, it's not." I sagged against him. I let him wrap me in his arms. I clutched at him, hands digging into the silk of his shirt. I buried my face against his chest and whispered, "He ate Marcus. He ate him."
"He's a werewolf, Ma petite . That's what they do."
It was such an odd thing to say, and so terribly true, that I laughed—an abrupt, almost angry sound. The laughter died in choking, and the choking became sobs.
I held onto Jean-Claude like he was the last sane thing in the world. I buried myself against him and wept. It was like something deep inside me had broken, and I was crying out bits of myself onto his body.