Escort For The Witch: The Mystery of Psyche's Ruby - стр. 12
Derek chirped cheerfully, breaking into a blissful smile that revealed his blood-stained fangs.
“What do you mean, ‘known better’?” Sabrina enquired judgementally, watching her “fashion designer” float around the room, mimicking Cornell Sr.
“Dad, how did you get him out?”
“He threw up right in the morgue,” Dad remarked, ignoring my question. “Can you imagine? Right there! Threw up! A vampire! And you know what happened to the doctor who tried to examine him?”
“Me!” the vampire in question interjected. “I happened to the doctor,” he chuckled. “Like in the good old horror movies. I open my eyes, push the dude in the white scrubs aside and dash to the sink! I heard the loud thud behind me as he fainted, of course, but I didn’t think he’d be so impressionable. He deals with stiffs daily, after all…So unprofessional of him. People used to be different back in the day. They weren’t afraid of anything! But now? Everyone’s gone soft,” the bloodsucker mused, settling into my father’s armchair.
“And what about you, Cornell? You did show your true colors last night: ‘Give me a lever long enough and a fulcrum on which to place it, and I shall make a toast!’” the vampire mimicked me and guffawed. “Your toasting skills leave a lot to be desired. And – you’re hardly Archimedes.”
“Anyways, Jack, the next time you decide to get drunk—and I hope there won’t be a next time—choose a more mortal companion, will you,” uttered a quiet, unfamiliar voice behind us. “You’re drawing too much attention. To yourselves, and to the things regular people shouldn’t know about.”
I turned around to face a tall stranger standing in the dark corner of the hallway. The man stood like a statue, observing us silently and intently, barely moving. How did he enter the house unnoticed?
“Felix, if my memory serves me right, you haven’t met my son, have you?” my father addressed the stranger.
“No, Elliot. But I assume you’ll introduce us now. Although I’ve heard quite a lot about the exploits of Mr. Cornell Jr.,” the man said in the same quiet, raspy voice, moving further into the living room and allowing the rays of the setting sun to give us a better view of our new acquaintance.
Before us stood a tall, stately man in his mid-forties. Clean-shaven, neatly combed, and elegantly dressed. He looked and carried himself like a typical, successful businessman, except for one small detail: his unnaturally greyish skin and a thin, slightly opaque film covering the whites and pupils of his eyes. The stranger stepped closer, tilting his head slightly to greet us, then smiled broadly, revealing a row of sharp, razor-like fangs.
“Felix Timmons,” he introduced himself. “Curator of the Ancient Letters Department at the ‘Guardian.’ And, incidentally, chief mentor of this… misfit,” he nodded toward the armchair in which Derek was lounging, feeling a little too comfortable. “I’ve spent centuries trying to hammer some sense into him – all in vain.”
“Don’t take it to heart, Felix. This guy here, my son (God help us), is also a walking disaster,” my father chimed in, pointing his index finger at me. “I can’t even imagine what would have happened if Eric had been there too. Sabi, sweetheart, no offense, but that would be quite a crew. I’m almost afraid to think what they’d have gotten up to. We’d have to declare a state of emergency across the entire state!”