Читать книгу The bride of the silver dragon - Dmitry Nazarov - Страница 9

– The action received a lot of press coverage, – Laurie reads in a glassy voice from her tablet. – The workers, volunteers, and patients of the Center for Social Assistance to Women Victims of Domestic Violence express their heartfelt gratitude to Margarita Sheremetieva and all of her little foster children. Also.

– Enough, – I stop him, because this is the third ode of praise in the electronic media, and they are all written about the same thing, albeit in different words.

One look at the photo of the “presents” was enough to understand who exactly paid for this “banquet”.

Oddly enough – me.

Although I always considered this problem, to put it mildly, more far-fetched than real, and rather hysterical than adequate. But maybe that’s because there are simply no men among moonshiners capable of hurting someone who is weaker, much less the woman who gave birth to your child. A couple of facts that could have sullied our crystalline reputation are hushed up and covered up to avoid indelible shame.

And their perpetrators… They paid the ultimate price.

But this center is in the business of helping human women, and it wasn’t the moonshiners who hurt them, it was their mortal fathers, brothers, husbands, and mere roommates. Which once again proves the moonshiners’ claim to the right to rule this world.

Laurie finds another article and shows me a short video. It shows Margarita cutting up a huge watermelon with her own hand, handing out slices to the children and women, and taking the last slice for herself. When her lips touch the juicy scarlet flesh, I too hastily turn my chair toward the window.

How to “develop” this now.

There’s an investor meeting in half an hour, and all my soaps are suddenly and somehow very spotty and head much, much lower.

– Any instructions, Mr. Shad’Far? – Laurie rises – I hear the rustle of clothes and the light squeak of his new shoes. – Should we give some kind of reaction to all this?

Even if I wanted to – and I don’t want to – how could I do that? Nowhere on those flowers and candies is my name, and I’m sure Margo personally made sure there were no notes from me in them. By the way, there were exactly a hundred of them. I counted them, because I signed each one with my own hand like a donkey, and even made up my mind, trying to choose words and phrases without obvious repetitions. Where were my brains, when I thought that she would read each of them and appreciate my attempt to smooth out the unpleasant aftermath of my nocturnal visit?

It makes me want to say to myself, “Obviously where they are now, in the front of my pants.

It’s a good thing that the phone ringing keeps me from thinking about why I, a pure-blooded lunatic, have a mere mortal woman stuck in my head like a wedge. And such an arrogant one at that. And dangerous.

And so damn attractive.

– We must meet, K’raig.

On the other end of the line is my fiancée, A’Lita. Until recently, I’d almost tolerated her always slightly gushing voice, but after the scandal she caused over those photos of me with a Playboy model, I began to be allergic to it.

– What’s the occasion? – I keep a dry, formal tone.

It had been a big mistake to turn our communication with her into friendship, but I was sure it would benefit our contractual status. A’Leta is, to put it mildly, one of those poor girls unlucky enough to be born even remotely pretty. And even the efforts of the best plastic surgeons and cosmetologists have not corrected the mistake of nature, although, A’Leta did look a little better – an even nose, a corrected bite and juicy lips somehow, but will adorn almost any woman. If A’Leta hadn’t been the heiress to an extremely large financial empire-she would never have obtained the status of my bride. But here we coincided – her bloated ambitions wanted the very best groom, and my campaign wanted to get rid of her flawed “bachelor” status.

A year after I would get the senator’s chair, we would part quietly and peacefully, each with our own – me in the senator’s chair, her without her flawed status, but with the proud title “Ex-Fiancée of a Senator.”

That’s how we agreed ashore, and I was sure that by maintaining a friendly relationship with A’Lita, I was helping both of us. When the pictures of my date with Natasha surfaced online, I had no idea that it would be A’Leta who initiated the grand scandal. I didn’t promise to be faithful to her, damn it, and I hadn’t done so for two years of our “betrothal. I couldn’t really be naive enough to believe that a man in the prime of his manhood would keep his fake fiancée celibate for two years.

– We need to discuss this situation, – A’Leta said. – And decide on our common ground.

– So you made a scene, shed crocodile tears for a week in front of all the federal cameras, pretended to be a grief-stricken, devoted bride, and now you think it’s time to talk?

– I was saving my reputation,” hisses my fiancée.

– At the expense of mine, – I add.

– We had an agreement, Shad’Far! You let your sordid affair with your maiden name be known to the country!

Well, at least she had a point. Natasha turned out to be quite the… dirty girl.

Too bad she was only good enough for one time. Like all human women with whom I had a daily romance purely out of boredom.

Speaking of which, although it doesn’t excuse me in any way, I had no idea what Natasha was up to. Not every long-legged blonde with a doll face, who quite usually drinks wine in a small bar – a stripper. What she does for bread, I learned only a couple of days later, when our joint photos somehow fell into the hands of my main election competitor. I never believed in such “accidents” so I did not write this one off to a bad set of circumstances, but did everything to hush up the scandal.

And when I almost succeeded, another problem came on the horizon-my angry “bride,” A’Leta. And it was she who did everything to turn an ordinary problem into a tragedy of universal proportions.

– I’m outside your office, – A’Leta insisted. – I’m on my way up.

Very much in her vein-whether she wants to or not, she does it anyway.

The first time I encountered this was when my “business” fiancée decided that a more realistic view of our relationship was necessary to make it harmonious in society and invited several journalists from popular TV channels to interview them at once. I found out about it the night before and, of course, I couldn’t change anything and didn’t even prepare properly. “I’ll do all the talking myself,” A’Lita reassured me, and I figured it would be no big deal if she steered a little. Especially at that time, her father – a famous senator in the past, still in authority and in the most important offices of power – was already actively engaged in my promotion to politics. In fact, the interview turned into the most banal retelling of some completely idiotic women’s rosy dreams, in which I was assigned the role of a lovestruck chump.

Even her father, who had been aware of our business arrangement from the beginning, admitted that the interview was a bad idea, because it made A’Leta look like a fool in love, and I…

I clench my teeth so I don’t spill the curses that burst out.

– You have fifteen minutes,” I say, because the meeting with her is inevitable.

The only way to get rid of the “bride” is to order security not to let her in, but then that would further add to my image of the unfaithful fiancé walking around the net. Lori is doing his best to cover for all the resources that are speculating on the already blatantly fake news about Natasha and me having a lingering affair, and I’m not going to make it harder for him with the real scandals of A’Lita and me.

She shows up on my doorstep exactly two minutes later-as always, dressed in the latest fashions, with perfect hair and makeup. It’s a shame that all this doesn’t make her “facade” any more attractive or add any brains. It’s only now that I realize that our fake engagement has done A’lie a disservice-she’s become awfully conceited when she begins to believe that a farce can be turned into a truth.

– Here, – A’Leta placed a puffy paper bag on my desk without further ado.

– What’s in it? – I don’t even touch it.

Our last conversation was heated, to say the least, and though it had been weeks since then, it was obvious A’Leta was not only hotter, but still hotter. And if there’s one thing I know about women that they’re not destined to have childbearing functions, it’s that when they’re angry they never give good news.

– A new batch of your adventures, – she squinted.

A new batch? Luna, I only spent one night with that babe, what kind of batch are we talking about?

– Don’t you want to see it?

– No, because it’s probably just another not-so-good photo montage. I guess the Shar’Darren campaign isn’t going as well as anyone in the dumpster is saying, since he’s got his claws in my dirty laundry.

A’Letha snorts loudly, pulls out an envelope and with shaking hands, tosses a pile of black and white photographs on the table.

I wouldn’t have looked at them if my attention hadn’t been drawn to the front of the house, on the threshold of which I was photographed at just the right angle, with my face well lit by the porch lantern.

Natasha and I had our fun at the hotel. As with all the previous women before her, because I never cheat on the iron rule of not taking random women home. And the facade of this building, though largely renovated, clearly betrays its age and deplorable condition. I know of only one such place where I went willingly.

It is the shelter of Margarita Sheremetyeva.

Ignoring A’Lita’s triumphant chuckle, I start going through the pictures. Here I enter the house with flowers, but I can’t see who opens the door. Here’s clearly a couple of pictures from the window where I’m handing flowers to Margot.

Nothing criminal.

As if.

But in the next shot, she leans across the table to my face – and just remembering that moment makes me involuntarily stick my hand in my pants pocket. Even just from the outside, it somehow looks like something I want to cover up with an “18+" sign. Damn it, though, we were both fully clothed, and Marguerite was telling me off like a boy, and this was definitely not a date or an attempt to seduce me!

– Shar’Darren would be very happy to break the next sensational news that the Lunnick claiming the Senator’s chair had fallen so low that he’d walked in the arms of human women. – A’Leta doesn’t even hide the fact that he revels in triumph.

– Where did you get this?

– Does it matter?

– Yes, he bloody well does! – I raked the pictures into an unstructured pile and slipped them back into the envelope. Somehow, at this moment, I care less about my own reputation at stake than I do about Marguerite’s. If these pictures get out one way or another, she is unlikely to be happy to have her name next to mine in the most unflattering verbal constructions. – I want to know who is watching my every move so insistently.

– Then you’d better change your guard, K’Reig, – A’Leta grinned, – if no one’s been watching. Or. Wait. You didn’t go without a guard, did you?

– What do you want for it? – I deliberately ignore her question. It’s understandable-why give her wounded ego an excuse to stroke herself against the wool.

– Should I want something?

– Yes, if that filth is on my desk and not Shar’Darren’s.

I make a mental note to summon my chief of security as soon as she leaves, give him a good scolding, and demand to know within twenty-four hours who is watching my life so closely-a rival for the Senate, my own “bride,” or… some other person with a vested interest in killing my reputation.

– Our engagement will remain in force for another two years, – A’Leta declares.

The last time we spoke, when my affair with Natasha came to light, she screamed that she would never want to be my fiancée again, that it would tarnish her honor and stain her family. It was like she was the first moonwoman whose man had ever been caught in the company of a hot hottie. Even her father, who wasn’t in the mood for this story either, wasn’t as radical.

And so, after two weeks of beluga roaring in all the media about her broken heart, about the destroyed faith in men and my completely callous soul, A’Lita shows up with a demand to continue the farce.

– И… – She pauses, as if the previous demand wasn’t idiotic enough and I need to be finally stumped, – this time it’s for real.

– What? – I have to admit – even I didn’t expect her feeble mind to spew such nonsense.

– And you’ll have to take care of that scandalous woman. – A’Leta squeamishly points to the envelope with the pictures. – Father thinks the orphanage story has gotten too much press, and it’s hurting the whole campaign.

– Is that why you came to tell me about it? – Now it’s my turn to be ironic.

Unlike my relationship with A’Leta, my relationship with her father has always been businesslike and very clear. If he had something to tell me, he’d just make an appointment and we’d discuss any points of contention. He didn’t use the “tampered telephone,” he didn’t send his assistants to me, and he certainly never sent anything through his daughter.

– It may seem strange to you, Shad’Far, but my father and I always agree on some things. – My fiancée presses her lips together, apparently, like most women, naively believing it gives her face a touch of menacing significance. In fact, it’s pathetic. Particularly A’Lita, who after all her endless attempts to tighten, enlarge and correct the shape, her lips have turned into what very not for nothing is called a “dumpling”. – Sheremetyeva should be gone in the very near future. That would be good for everyone-you’d finally close the election pledge issue and get the votes, and I’d get deep moral satisfaction.

– So it is you, after all, and not you and your father? – I catch her off-guard with ease. Just as I always do when A’Letha forgets herself and ceases to control her own flow of words.

She knows she’s said too much, but she’s smart enough not to start denying it.

Well, that’s not the question, but why the hell would my fiancée be mad at Margot? They certainly hadn’t crossed paths in any way, and I can’t imagine under what hypothetical circumstances Marguerite might have crossed her path. The only ghostly connection between these two women is me, and only because I know them both.

Is it really all about these pictures?

I remember that in the one where Margot is leaning over me across the table, I have a face like a sheep. Naturally, without a bit of exaggeration. A’Lota seems to have given it too much importance.

Or not, because the memory of Margot-even at this inopportune moment-stirred my imagination with not at all chaste thoughts.

– I will, with your permission, solve the question of Margarita Sheremetyeva myself, – I say, when I realize that the pause has lingered.

– And if without my permission?

– Al, for the sake of the moon, don’t be so literal. – I hope my condescending smile says eloquently enough what I think of her mental faculties. – It’s just a figure of speech that has nothing to do with you and your nonsensical demands.

She gets on her feet so sharply that she topples over her chair.

I don’t even raise an eyebrow.

– So you don’t give a damn if the next batch of your affair ends up in whose hands?!

– I’ve never let anyone blackmail me. – This time my voice is iron and emphatically official. I don’t normally use it with women, but this time A’Letha asked for it.

All Moonmen have a Gift, an accidental trait given by the Moon, from whose light we once emerged. My Gift is a voice. I can use it as a tool to intimidate or seduce, to intimidate or relax, to make a man jump out of a window with a single intonation, or to make him strip naked in front of a crowd of thousands and tap-dance.

It’s a shame that every time I use my Gift, I get terrible, lingering migraines. Sometimes for days or even weeks. But there are two sides to the moon, and every move of the Light is billed to the Dark One.

I wouldn’t use my “voice” now, if I weren’t sure that I couldn’t get A’ltu to leave without a scandal.

She backs toward the door, oblivious to the envelope and the threats.

I can hear the echo of my long extinguished words restrain her will, repeatedly spurring her instinct to flee. She doesn’t even quite realize what’s happening. Maybe only after a while, when her mind has cleared, will she catch herself thinking that she can’t remember the last phrase of our conversation.

That’s how it works – plus or minus the same with everyone.

When the door behind her closes, I lean back in my chair and already feel a nasty tingling in the back of my head. In a couple of hours, the pain will be so unbearable that even I, K’rraig Shad’Far, will be howling at the walls.

I pull the photo out of the envelope, find the one with my absolutely stupid face, and bend it so that only Margot is in focus. I bet I can almost smell her hair, though I have no idea what it smells like.

I could reach out and grab the phone and dial her number-it’s been in my phone book for a long time. These days it costs nothing for a powerful Lunnic to get into the private lives of ordinary people, but I didn’t even need to pull up my connections-I just called R’ran once more and asked him for Margo’s phone number. Strangely enough, he barely even laughed, but once again he reminded me that if I cared about my primary sexual characteristics, I’d better not go to Marguerite. Not even with courtesy calls.

Still, I take the risk of texting her, writing off this weakness in advance as a migraine attack. Without thinking long, I type “Didn’t you keep even one tiny weed of all the flowers I sent?” and hit the send button.

She gets the message right away.

And she looks at it almost immediately.

But never dignifies me with a reply.

So I go for broke and send her a photo of a couple of pictures from the envelope, with a note: “It seems that soon the secular gossip explodes scandalous new romance. But I must say, you look beautiful in these pictures!”