Methodius Buslaev. Third Horseman Of Gloom. Дмитрий ЕмецЧитать онлайн книгу.
Daph asked sullenly.
“With the best of intentions, nasty! The best of intentions! I wanted to propose a deal. It’s always pleasant for a simple modest succubus to provide service to a guard. You give me the wings and I’ll help keep Buslaev staying true to you. Huh? In my opinion, a fair trade. Meanwhile, the flute and eternity remain yours.” Here Whimper winked provocatively with the male eye.
“You’re so kind, downright stunning! Besides wings, do you need anything else? Perhaps, even Depressiac to pack in your backpack? Don’t be shy!” Daph suggested, regarding him with indignation.
The succubus looked sideways with unease at the cat. “Don’t need an animal now. Some other time, my wussy! So, about the trade? Shake on it?”
“Shake a leg!” Daph said and, waiting until the succubus was puzzled, added, “And even the ears and the nose! If someone needs Buslaev, let them steal him. I somehow don’t remember about arranging for ownership of him!”
“But you’ll perish! You’ll be deprived of eternity, the wings, and the flute!” Whimper exclaimed incredulously.
“And you’re feeling sorry for me, perhaps? We’ll now whine about this in full accordance with your name?” Daph retorted.
“Not for you, but sorry for the wings! You have no idea how Tukhlomon bragged when he brought two laces with golden wings! What an ass! Everyone knows that he didn’t chop the wings off the Light, but you did! You dealt with the golden-winged, and he only ripped the laces!” the succubus said enviously. “And now these two wingless guards are probably staggering somewhere here, in the human world.”
“How do you know? I thought they returned to Eden,” Daphne said in confusion.
“Return to Eden without wings? Disgraced? No way!” Whimper giggled. “Friends told me that they met this pair somewhere in town. They walk and look for someone. Who are they looking for, do you know?”
“I have no idea,” Daph said. She wanted to turn the succubus into a caterpillar again and this time would not pull him out from under the bus.
“Correct. The less you know, the quicker you move up the ranks,” Whimper agreed. “So, what about our deal? Wings in exchange for Methodius’ devotion? Huh, huh, huh? And no jealousy, my wussy! Never! Although, they say, jealousy is free attachment to love. Fans of freebies appreciate it.”
“No!” said Daph.
The succubus was not too upset. His levity outweighed his concern for business. After sighing for decorum, he stared at his hands, choosing with which to scratch his nose. The male hairy paw did not suit him, so he selected the delicate female one, and was satisfied with his own diligence.
“Well, no judgement on ‘no’. Do you want to lose everything else? Eternity and the flute? So, no you and no spirits of Gloom? Well, we’ll still return to this conversation. In the meantime, allow me to present you a gift! It doesn’t obligate you to anything! Not any trade, simply a gift!”
“I don’t accept gifts from Gloom!” Daph refused.
Whimper quickly pulled the poppy out of his buttonhole and forcibly thrust it into Daphne’s hand. “I implore you, my wussy! Don’t be silly! I’m like this, from a noble soul sizzling, no strings!” he said, squeezing Daph’s fingers with the strong male paw.
“What?” Daphne was taken aback.
“Well, selflessly! You’ll always have time to get rid of the flower. But in the meantime, pin it to your clothing and remember. The poppy is red – you are loved, everything comes up roses. No cause for concern. Pink – a slight cooling triggered by new emotions, magic, and whatever: already start worrying, but you still can live. Ah, darling! What subtlety, I’m thrilled!”
And Whimper, extremely pleased, blossomed into a half-smile, which could belong equally to both a self-assured, positive, funny little man from a film about the state border and the winner of a beauty contest.
“Poke, my wussy!” he said and coquettishly touched the tip of Daph’s nose with a manicured finger. Depressiac waved its paw, but, alas, was too late.
“Further attention!” the succubus continued. “Blue is the colour of boredom. It means that you’re bored. Alas, everyone goes through this. Few know that there’s also a way to that side… This, therefore, is the next stage after pink. A brown poppy is the colour of contempt. Yellow is betrayal. Black is hate, such, right to pieces. Grrr! Well, darling, I suppose, you’ll never get to it. Although, moronoid passion is different! Sometimes red-black, black-red! Blinks like this so that you’re exhausted. No drama, no patch up!”
“Stop!” Daph said, turning away. The succubus winced too openly.
“The flower works around the clock. It doesn’t wilt, require batteries, watering, or fertilizers. Doesn’t burn in fire, doesn’t drown in alcohol: you’ll always know how the one beside you relates to you.”
“I don’t need artifacts of Gloom!” Daphne said doubtfully, examining the poppy.
The succubus chuckled hollowly. He knew well how to detect nuances. Daph imagined that a dry pea was rattling inside him.
“What arts? What facts? I entreat you, my wussy, don’t make mankind laugh! This, is a bauble, a pretty trinket! If you want, throw it away. I don’t insist. And now, excuse me, I have a date. A certain ministry worker is going to give away his eidos for a rendezvous with his first student love!”
“What kind of love?” Daph asked.
“Ahh, nothing special! This superficial girl with teeth and legs,” the succubus said with such contempt, as if having teeth and legs was something reprehensible. “I wonder, will he at least wonder why she hasn’t changed in thirty years? By the way, the original lives with her grandsons and two dogs three streets away from him, but that has no value for our friend. Dreams, dreams! Sometimes they’re worth more than reality. Well, I’ll depart on the wings of love! Don’t pass up Methodius, my wussy!”
“I won’t!” Daph said to herself under her breath.
“Your love – indeed trust me on the word – hangs on a wing and a prayer, strengthened by a thread! Need my help, just whistle! Wings, and I’m yours!”
“No!” Daph said firmly.
The succubus formed a ring with his fingers and looked at Daphne through the hole. “So be it! I’ll give you some advice!” he said magnanimously. “As much good as free. When the poppy becomes brown or yellow, you’ll still be able to return it to its previous colour, and Methodius’ love together with it. So, interested?”
“How?” Daph asked involuntarily.
Whimper looked around furtively. “It will be sufficient to sprinkle the poppy with something crimson!” he said in a loud whisper.
“Crimson?”
“Precisely, my wussy! Crimson! What can be more crimson than the blood of a mortal? Only the blood of a guard of Light!”
“I won’t kill anyone!” Daph said contemptuously.
“No need to kill anyone. Quite enough blood from your finger. When the poppy becomes red again, pin it on Methodius’ shirt near the collar. No shirt, a T-shirt will do. Well, time for me to go, Light! Smooch-smooch!”
“Smooch-smooch!” Daph repeated, smiling involuntarily.
“Cheer up! Dream of me sometime! Bye, sweetie!” The succubus wriggled his fingers coquettishly.
Daph shuddered. To see a succubus in dreams is a bad sign. Dreams are their element. They drink strength and soul in dreams.
“You dream of me, my sweet!” Daph said, paying him back.
Whimper flinched, as if all his teeth were aching at once. Whoever strikes with some weapon also fears that weapon. Pretty much how gypsies are frightened on hearing the words “I’ll tell your fortune!” uttered with the necessary degree of conviction. The promise to dream of a succubus is more effective than any curses. A