（外文电子版资料）Freda Warrington - The Raven Bound.pdf

The Raven Bound Freda Warrington I walk a tightrope above an abyss. The silver line of wire is all that keeps me from 1,000 feet of darkness yet I feel no fear. I flit across the rooftops of London like a cat, I lie flat on top of underground trains as they roar through sooty tunnels. I climb the ironwork of the Eiffel Tower and I dance upon the girders at its pinnacle, daring gravity to take me. And all of this is so dull. Dull, because I can do it. I move with the lightness and balance of a bird. I never fall, unless I throw myself wantonly at the ground. Then I may break bones, but my bones heal fast. It is not difficult. It will not kill me. All these wild feats bore me, for they hold no challenge, no excitement. What is a vampire to do? I see him in a nightclub. He could be my twin: a brooding young man with a lean and handsome face, dark hair hanging in his eyes; his eyes lovely miserable pools of shadow. How alone he looks, sitting there oblivious to the crush of bodies, the women glittering with beads and pearls. He is hunched over a glass of whisky and he raises a long, gaunt hand to his mouth, sucking hard on a cigarette stub. Dragging out its last hot rush of poisons. May I join you? I say. If you must. His voice is a bored, English upper-class drawl. I love that. There is no free table. I wave to emphasize the obvious; the club is crowded, a sepia scene in a fog of smoke. My name is Antoine Matisse. Rupert Wyndham-Hayes. He shakes my hand half-heartedly. His cigarette is finished so I offer him another, a slim French one from a silver case. He accepts. I light it for him — an intimate gesture — and he sits back, blowing smoke in sulky pleasure. Over from Paris, one assume