Her dark knights download in full. Read her book The Dark Knights online. About the book “Her Dark Knights” by Lana Ezhova

I woke up in a bathtub full of cold blood.

No, it seemed to me out of fear - the water turned alarmingly pink in the electric light, and there was definitely blood in it, but in an insignificant amount. The aromatic foam stuck to the sides in sad flakes. There was a dull pain in the back of my head, and my left leg ached above the knee. Raising herself up, she saw a deep wound, as if someone had not only made an incision, but had also picked at it. The blood, strangely, did not flow, as if the thigh had already begun to heal and the water had only softened it.

Where does it come from? What's wrong with your leg? With me? What? I do not remember…

I don’t remember... and it seems I don’t want to remember. There's a ringing in my head. Not a single coherent thought, just something elusively chaotic and now unnecessary.

Staggering, she crawled out of the bath onto the rug. The skin on my palms and feet was wrinkled from being in the water for a long time, and my whole body itched from the bleach. Without drying myself, I put on a robe and tied my leg with a towel - now there is no bleeding, but if I move, will it suddenly gush out?

Mechanically she lowered the bloody font. The funnel, spinning quickly, sucked water, soap suds and my blood into the drain. Wow! Surprise to all surprises! There was a knife at the bottom of the bathtub. Judging by the bone handle and curved blade, it was not intended for kitchen experiments.

The discovery spurred mental activity, dispelling the fog of apathy. It seems that the wound was caused not by someone, but by me. Did she really cut her veins? Hmm, on your leg? And I was going to take my own life in an original way - with a hunting knife? And she didn’t cut an artery, but stupidly picked at the “meat”? Were you looking for something? Creepy...

I don’t know why, but I wanted to quickly wash away all traces of the failed “suicide.” I rinsed the bathtub and knife with ice water. Then she put the weapon in a niche under the washbasin.

And then I saw her.

There was a cone-shaped silver-colored thing lying on the floor. According to action movies, it's a bullet. If you believe common sense that the humble librarian and the bullet are concepts from different non-contiguous realities, then this is an unidentified part from some strange object. Okay, I’ll figure it out later, but for now let it lie on the shelf with bath accessories.

If the memory has not completely gone into overdrive, then the first aid kit should be in the kitchen, on the shelf with tea and spices. This is true. Cotton wool, peroxide, bandage - all I need.

The blood had already dried and was not oozing, and the cut was not as deep as I had first imagined. Grandfather said it right, fear has big eyes. And yet I treated the wound, and almost without wincing. In the movies, such damage causes heroes to faint. I didn’t experience hellish torment, I bandaged it quickly. How would you know if such wounds need to be sutured? Or will it overgrow on its own? I hated going to the hospital: in queues with grannies you can get hypochondria - they discuss so many different illnesses, real and imagined, that it becomes bad.

It's deep night outside. As I closed the curtains, I noticed that my cactus had grown a little. This is what it means to dive headfirst into work - time flies, you don’t notice anything.

The kettle, put on the fire, reminded of itself with a piercing whistle.

Having brewed green with jasmine, I had mercy on my body and took the coveted painkiller pill. Tomorrow I will pay for this with a scattering of red pimples on my face - I am allergic to almost any medicine.

Having poured cookies onto a plate, I realized that if I didn’t watch some comedy, I wouldn’t be able to stand it and call Timur to cry about my suicide attempt. And mine true friend will rush in with the “cure for sorrows” - beer, dried fish and salted nuts. And then bags under the eyes and vigorous fumes will be added to the acne. Just what a girl with amnesia needs. Why don't I remember anything? What happened to me? No answer. I start to think about it, and it’s as if my temples are being squeezed by a cold hoop.

With tea, a plate of cookies in my hands and a sandwich in my teeth, I went into the room. From the picture he saw, the bread fell out of his mouth and onto the floor, and tea spilled on the carpet. On the sofa – on my favorite sofa! – a corpse lay in front of the silently working TV.

My God, I got it...

The first reaction - fear and shock - was replaced by doubt. Where did I get the idea that this is a corpse? Maybe because he didn’t jump to his feet when I screamed in a heart-rending voice? He was also unnaturally pale, with a peaceful face. This is exactly what the dead look like - I know for sure, since I recently buried my grandfather, and after him my grandmother. And yet the hope that I had rushed to conclusions remained.

With trembling hands, she put the dishes on the coffee table and bent over the body. Lord, please! I beg you, let him live! Let him sleep, just very, very soundly...

Well, well, not with my happiness. I forcefully poked my finger into the stranger’s stomach - there was no reaction, but if he were alive, he would definitely wake up.

The slender, lean body belonged to a man no older than thirty. An expressive, beautiful face with delicate features was framed by golden-wheat hair, which was in a state of slight dishevelment, undoubtedly due to the efforts of the hairdresser. The stranger was wearing expensive clothes: a gray suit, a pale pink shirt, a purple tie with gray stripes. There was even a scarf sticking out of the breast pocket of the jacket, it seemed to be silk. The dead man dared to lie on my rare coffee-colored sofa without taking off his shoes. Horror was mixed with irritation: I hate it when people walk around my house with shoes on. And I don’t care that his leather shoes are probably more expensive than my furniture, I don’t care that he’s dead! I wanted to quickly get rid of the insolent person from the rare thing that I inherited from my parents. You can get killed for such impudence!

Stop! Wasn't it me who killed him? Frost fell on my skin; it seemed that all the hairs on my back and arms stood on end. Memory, the reptile, was silent, the traitorous conscience hid, not making a sound.

The first question is: who is this citizen and how did he end up here? Second: how and who killed him? And the third, most important for me: what to do with the corpse?! Probably, I am a born criminal - my imagination has already drawn pictures of me calling Timur, and, having rolled the dead man into a carpet, we take him out in the trunk of a car to the nearest landing. Or is it better to go out of town altogether? Oh, what if a friend is on a business trip? What then to do with the corpse? Moms, what am I thinking about?! Now I’ll calm down a little and go call where I’m supposed to.

The breast pocket protruded more than expected. Perhaps there are some documents there, under the smart scarf? Without thinking twice, I kicked off my slippers and approached the body. I accidentally touched my hand - it wasn’t numb yet. Yeah, a driver's license in the name of Andrey Nikolaevich Bolkonsky. Wow, just like my favorite hero Tolstoy! It’s a pity that he died, I mean this Bolkonsky, next to whom I’m sitting, and not the writer... However, I also feel sorry for the author of “War and Peace”. And most of all, of course, I feel sorry for myself.

Tears flowed in a continuous, uncontrollable stream. With my head in my hands, I sat down next to the lifeless stranger. What a life? A piece of memory was torn out of my memory... a dead man on my favorite sofa... How did I end up!

- Gerda, what happened? Why are you crying?

I screamed when cool fingers touched my palms.

- A-ah-ah! “With a squeal, she jumped back and crashed onto the floor.

- Gerda! What's wrong with you, little one?!

- Gerda, what happened?

The man slowly hid his hands behind his back, as if indicating that he was not going to touch me anymore.

- You are alive? – asked uncertainly.

Since he “poked” me and called me by name, I am also allowed to be familiar.

“Of course,” the man nodded, watching my every move in surprise. - What will happen to me?

“Then why didn’t you react when I tried to push you away?”

- I thought it was a new game such a sleeping handsome man and a girl in a short robe with no underwear underneath...

Following his interested gaze, she blushed and tightened her belt. Stranger - for the life of me, I couldn’t dare call him Andrei Bolkonsky! – he sighed with feigned disappointment.

To get the situation back on track, I went on the offensive:

- What are you doing here? Who are you? And why are you lying on my sofa with your shoes on?

The blond's gray eyes narrowed.

- Gerda, do we continue to play?

- No. What's happening?

- Little one, did you hit your head? – he chuckled cheerfully.

And I'll admit it:

- Yes. The back of the head. Probably while taking a bath. And now I don’t remember everything. You exactly.

The blonde cursed. No, I didn’t understand what exactly he said, if I’m not mistaken, in French. But the raised tone and emotion in his voice indicated that he was not praising this wonderful night.

- The back of your head? Will you allow me to look?

And he carefully, as if towards a timid animal, moved towards me. I admit, the comparison thrown up by my imagination seemed humiliating. And I fearlessly turned my back to Bolkonsky, throwing my wet hair over my shoulder. In defense of my leaping courage, I will say that if he wished me harm, he would have broken his neck long ago, because we are alone in the apartment.

Long fingers gently touched my head. Light, gentle touches turned out to be harmless and pleasant.

“There is nothing, no abrasion, no hematoma,” he said, continuing to massage his neck and shoulders. “Are you sure you hit yourself, Gerda?”

My stupid name, hated since childhood, sounded soft from his lips, as if he liked it.

- Lazarus! Creature! - they growled from behind. - Get your rake away from her!

Almost getting a heart break, she pressed herself to the chest of the guest, who immediately hugged him willingly.

“Don’t yell, Ruslan, have a conscience,” the blond responded coolly.

- Which of us still has it! While I'm driving around supermarkets looking for chocolate cake with strawberries, you're pawing my Gerda!

His?! Flapping her eyelashes in surprise, she turned to look at the owner who had appeared. A tall brown-haired man with very angry green eyes froze at the threshold of the room. Dark blue jeans with a leather belt and a black T-shirt with a geographical print did not hide the athletic physique, emphasizing the prominent muscles. Wow, what a big guy... It's a pity that his good looks were now spoiled by his expression of rage. Wow, now I can imagine what a killer look that looks like!

- Lazarus, are you deaf? Keep your hands off Gerda! Or are they stuck? So I can help tear them off!

It became clear from the tone that he would tear them off for good, making the fair-haired man disabled. I'll have to intervene - or corpses will still appear in my house.

I opened my mouth, about to demand that they slow down, like Bolkonsky - or Lazarus? – He beat me to it, remarking restrainedly:

– Ruslan, calm down, you’re scaring Gerda. Something happened while you were away, you should know...

- What? You... you dared to touch her, you bastard?!

I didn’t understand what they were talking about, but the brown-haired man suddenly appeared next to us. And with a subtle movement he threw the blond man away from me. Having crashed into the wall and bounced off a rubber ball, Bolkonsky ran into Ruslan. Clutching, the men spun around the room like a tornado. At first, I covered my mouth with my palms and hid in a corner for fear of getting attacked. But hearing the furniture cracking and vases from my grandmother’s collection breaking, I couldn’t stand it.

And she screamed:

- Stop it! Who are you anyway? And what are you doing in my apartment?!

The guy, called Ruslan, turned around in surprise, about to get hit in the kidneys. Without even wincing in pain, he exclaimed in alarm:

– Gerda, don’t you remember who we are?

- No! I do not remember! “I wanted to add “morons,” but at the last moment I miraculously kept my word.

The fight ended instantly. The men looked at each other with concern and stared at me.

The one who was called Lazarus, despite the completely different name on his driver's license, sighed and began to tell:

“When Gerda saw me, she got scared. I think she has partial amnesia. She may have hit herself when she slipped in the bathroom. Or it was the way the three of us spent the evening.

The three of us spent the evening?! Mom dear! The terrible and vulgar, or rather, terribly vulgar, assumptions running through my head made me feel sick.

- Guys, in the end! Answer me, who are you?!

“I’m your boyfriend,” it sounded simultaneously.

I trust my instinct - it always tells me when they are lying to me. Now it was silent, not protesting. Unable to hold back an embarrassed laugh, feeling like she was in a stupid situation, she asked:

- What? Both at once?

The strangers nodded in unison.

Am I dating two sexy men at the same time? No. Can't be. I looked at their serious faces again. No. Oh come on! My impressionable mind thought the same thing - the room swam before my eyes, and I shamefully fainted.

A distant conversation invaded his consciousness, awakening him from his forced hibernation. I was lying on my favorite sofa. One. And through the loosely closed door, an argument flaring up in the kitchen could be heard.

“This is our chance to start over,” said, if I’m not mistaken, the blond.

- "Our"? Lazarus, go to hell, you bastard, this is my chance! – Ruslan sent his opponent along a completely different route, but I won’t repeat after him? I, the granddaughter of a philologist who collected modern folklore, am ashamed to utter banal curses. - Remember, you abandoned her. What did you say? I don't like redheads, I think?

Does that mean we don’t like redheads? Well, well... minus one point for Bolkonsky. In general, I’m not a redhead, I’m golden-blond... more precisely, very golden... okay, I’m a redhead. The vile conscience will not allow you to lie even to yourself. That's what life is, huh? I can’t even lie in my mind, pathological honesty doesn’t allow me!

“Yes, I don’t like redheads, but Gerda is golden-blond,” Lazarus was found, and I, breaking into a smile, returned the deducted point, adding another one on top.

- Stop clowning around, let's decide what we're going to do.

- Nothing. I'm happy that two months disappeared from her memory. We've been given a second chance, and I won't miss it.

Two month?! Shocked, I could hardly restrain the urge to scream. How two months?! Can't be!

– Do you want to replay our acquaintance with Gerda, making it perfect? What will happen when she remembers everything? – Ruslan’s voice exuded poison. – Just yesterday she could barely tolerate us, do you think such emotions are erased along with memories?

– I am convinced of this. - My first acquaintance supported his confidence with an argument: - Oh, how reverently she clung to me in fear when you returned and started screaming... Mm...

I blushed. The voices in the kitchen fell silent, replaced by an incomprehensible fuss. It seems that there... no, judging by the crashing of the chairs, there was definitely a fight there. Restless! They'll destroy my apartment! And when I had already dared to rush to the aid of the unfortunate furniture, the fighters resumed their dialogue.

– Lazarus, haven’t you thought that amnesia is not a consequence of the blow? What about a targeted magical attack?

– Has the new Glas investigation become a bone in anyone’s throat? Well, that's an option. But why did the spell take effect three or four hours after we returned home?

– Delayed action? – suggested Ruslan. “We need to call the Council, let them send a magician to count the residual traces of Gerda.”

– It won’t work – our girl, as always, took a bath with aromatic salt, and if I remember, it erases the imprints of someone else’s power.

The men were talking about something else, but I didn’t listen anymore. Magic? Spells? How many of us hit our heads? I don't believe in witchcraft, although my grandmother was called a sorceress. In a figurative sense, of course. After finishing teaching language and literature at school, she began making homemade cosmetics. And a small group of satisfied clients provided her with an income several times greater than her pension. Lotions, tonics, masks and creams worked wonders - prominent ladies of the city quarreled for the right to be among the chosen ones. And yet there was no smell of magic there, just knowledge of chemistry, physiology and the power of nature. I am convinced that there was nothing supernatural in my grandmother’s medicines, because they did not help me...

The bandaged leg distracted me from sad thoughts. She was itching. Terribly strong. The skin would have been torn off under the bandage! But she couldn’t move, otherwise she would have given herself away - at the slightest movement the old sofa creaked, like a hundred-year-old withered tree in windy weather.

- So it’s decided. We don’t inform either the Head, or the Leader, or the Master about what happened,” Ruslan summed up the conversation.

“We solve the memory problem ourselves,” the interlocutor easily agreed.

- Just, Lazarus, let's be honest. If we are silent, then both.

– Who do you take me for, you cat, not finished off by moths? – the blond was indignant. “I’m not going to give a trump card to someone I planned to overthrow two months ago!”

- OK OK! You hate your Master, I remember.

For some time there was silence in the kitchen. Then Ruslan said thoughtfully:

– Maybe I should call Tomasovsky? What if he knows how to restore Gerda’s memory?

Neither the mention of magicians, nor any masters with leaders evoked as many emotions in me as the name of my grandmother’s old friend, the so-called family friend. Arthur Tomasovsky is the most disgusting old man in the world. The contemptuous grimace that appeared every time I entered the room where they were drinking tea with grandma still made me angry. And his phrases are full of “wit”! “Raisa, do something with your granddaughter, you are a master of beauty. Or a shoemaker without boots? I wouldn't hear it for ages! The only thing worse than old man Tomasovsky is his grandson, named Arthur after his grandfather. A well-groomed man, whose attractiveness was spoiled by a disgusted expression on his face, exactly the same as that of his older relative.

I met Arthur Jr. when I turned sixteen, almost a year after I moved to live with my grandmother. She sent me for Tomasovsky. And I, trying to fulfill the request, went into the house when no one answered the knock. It was there that I first saw my granddaughter... Handsome Arthur was working hard on the blonde, moaning so much that at first I decided that he was killing her. Somehow I gave myself away. The man raised his head. His hazy gaze lingered on my lips, after which he grinned and beckoned with his finger. Me! A sixteen-year-old awkward teenager who saw a sex scene with his own eyes for the first time. I rushed away, as if devils from hell were chasing me, driving me in the ass with a pitchfork. The younger Tomasovsky rushed after him, fortunately covering his... hmm... loins with sheets.

– You’re Gerda, right?

Having overtaken, he stood on the threshold, smiling contentedly at something.

Blushing with shame and looking down, I nodded.

– What did you want, Gerda?

Stuttering, she conveyed the grandmother’s invitation.

- Girl, you liked what you saw, right? – Arthur asked insinuatingly.

Startled, I looked into his eyes. Darkness swirled within them. And not just darkness, but something sticky and dirty...

When I shook my head negatively, he grabbed my chin and, smiling, retorted:

- You're lying. You are at that age when the closeness of a man and a woman arouses curiosity. I can enlighten you... in theory. My friend will not even think of objecting if you want to watch us for informational purposes.

- With pleasure, uncle! I only go to the store for popcorn and Fanta!

No, of course, I didn’t answer that way then. Unfortunately, at sixteen I was not distinguished by either courage or wit. I roared loudly, and Arthur, laughing, pushed me out into the street.

I only told a friend about the disgusting proposal, smearing snot all over my face. Timur Ladov was indignant for a long time. Then he proposed, together with the guys from the judo section, to meet this pervert on the street and “educate” that it is forbidden to molest underage girls.

With difficulty, she dissuaded her friend from the idea of ​​beating the youngest of the Arthurs. Something told me that then my relatives would find out about my shame. But I would not have survived such humiliation. Hmmm, youthful maximalism in all its glory... Now I wouldn’t remain silent.

- So, shall we call Tomasovsky?

- No need! – I screamed, giving myself away.

I also scratched my leg with pleasure, and the sofa creaked loudly. And only when she pulled her fingers out from under the bandage did she realize: the skin underneath was whole and smooth. What the hell is going on? I repeated this question out loud when both of my supposed boyfriends ran into the room.

-What's wrong with my leg? There was a wound there just a few minutes ago.

The guys looked at each other. And I didn’t like the equally sad expressions on their faces.

The blond man took on the role of negotiator.

– Gerda, do you believe in the supernatural?

- Into the drums, little green men and yetis? Certainly. “I nodded my head mockingly. “And I also know that there are two terrible animals - the squirrel and the arctic fox, which appear when the human body is in states that are usually unusual for it.

Lazarus grimaced as if he had bitten off half a lemon.

- No, I meant magicians...

– Gypsy grandmothers who remove damage, the evil eye and excess gold jewelry from clients? – I interrupted.

- No, real magicians. – The blonde, visible to the naked eye, was losing patience. – And also vampires and werewolves.

- No I do not believe.

– Have you ever thought that legends, fairy tales and horror stories did not arise out of nowhere?

I thought about it, remembering the books I read as a child. The expression of hope on the boys' faces would have forced another to lie. But, alas, my conscience is alert.

Sorry, boys, I'm a skeptic and I'm not looking for monsters under the bed in a dark room. Because she didn’t invite. But a couple tried to sneak into the bed... Not movie monsters, but those who live among us and seem like ordinary people, but in reality... no, it’s better, of course, not to check, but to stay away from them. But here it’s my own fault - I don’t understand men well.

- Ruslan, what should we do with her? – Lazarus pursed his lips. - We'll have to use shock therapy.

Lana Ezhova

Her dark knights

I woke up in a bathtub full of cold blood.

No, it seemed to me out of fear - the water turned alarmingly pink in the electric light, and there was definitely blood in it, but in an insignificant amount. The aromatic foam stuck to the sides in sad flakes. There was a dull pain in the back of my head, and my left leg ached above the knee. Raising herself up, she saw a deep wound, as if someone had not only made an incision, but had also picked at it. The blood, strangely, did not flow, as if the thigh had already begun to heal and the water had only softened it.

Where does it come from? What's wrong with your leg? With me? What? I do not remember…

I don’t remember... and it seems I don’t want to remember. There's a ringing in my head. Not a single coherent thought, just something elusively chaotic and now unnecessary.

Staggering, she crawled out of the bath onto the rug. The skin on my palms and feet was wrinkled from being in the water for a long time, and my whole body itched from the bleach. Without drying myself, I put on a robe and tied my leg with a towel - now there is no bleeding, but if I move, will it suddenly gush out?

Mechanically she lowered the bloody font. The funnel, spinning quickly, sucked water, soap suds and my blood into the drain. Wow! Surprise to all surprises! There was a knife at the bottom of the bathtub. Judging by the bone handle and curved blade, it was not intended for kitchen experiments.

The discovery spurred mental activity, dispelling the fog of apathy. It seems that the wound was caused not by someone, but by me. Did she really cut her veins? Hmm, on your leg? And I was going to take my own life in an original way - with a hunting knife? And she didn’t cut an artery, but stupidly picked at the “meat”? Were you looking for something? Creepy...

I don’t know why, but I wanted to quickly wash away all traces of the failed “suicide.” I rinsed the bathtub and knife with ice water. Then she put the weapon in a niche under the washbasin.

And then I saw her.

There was a cone-shaped silver-colored thing lying on the floor. According to action movies, it's a bullet. If you believe common sense that the humble librarian and the bullet are concepts from different non-contiguous realities, then this is an unidentified part from some strange object. Okay, I’ll figure it out later, but for now let it lie on the shelf with bath accessories.

If the memory has not completely gone into overdrive, then the first aid kit should be in the kitchen, on the shelf with tea and spices. This is true. Cotton wool, peroxide, bandage - all I need.

The blood had already dried and was not oozing, and the cut was not as deep as I had first imagined. Grandfather said it right, fear has big eyes. And yet I treated the wound, and almost without wincing. In the movies, such damage causes heroes to faint. I didn’t experience hellish torment, I bandaged it quickly. How would you know if such wounds need to be sutured? Or will it overgrow on its own? I hated going to the hospital: in queues with grannies you can get hypochondria - they discuss so many different illnesses, real and imagined, that it becomes bad.

It's deep night outside. As I closed the curtains, I noticed that my cactus had grown a little. This is what it means to dive headfirst into work - time flies, you don’t notice anything.

The kettle, put on the fire, reminded of itself with a piercing whistle. Having brewed green with jasmine, I had mercy on my body and took the coveted painkiller pill. Tomorrow I will pay for this with a scattering of red pimples on my face - I am allergic to almost any medicine.

Having poured cookies onto a plate, I realized that if I didn’t watch some comedy, I wouldn’t be able to stand it and call Timur to cry about my suicide attempt. And my faithful friend will rush in with the “cure for sorrows” - beer, dried fish and salted nuts. And then bags under the eyes and vigorous fumes will be added to the acne. Just what a girl with amnesia needs. Why don't I remember anything? What happened to me? No answer. I start to think about it, and it’s as if my temples are being squeezed by a cold hoop.

With tea, a plate of cookies in my hands and a sandwich in my teeth, I went into the room. From the picture he saw, the bread fell out of his mouth and onto the floor, and tea spilled on the carpet. On the sofa – on my favorite sofa! – a corpse lay in front of the silently working TV.

My God, I got it...

The first reaction - fear and shock - was replaced by doubt. Where did I get the idea that this is a corpse? Maybe because he didn’t jump to his feet when I screamed in a heart-rending voice? He was also unnaturally pale, with a peaceful face. This is exactly what the dead look like - I know for sure, since I recently buried my grandfather, and after him my grandmother. And yet the hope that I had rushed to conclusions remained.

With trembling hands, she put the dishes on the coffee table and bent over the body. Lord, please! I beg you, let him live! Let him sleep, just very, very soundly...

Well, well, not with my happiness. I forcefully poked my finger into the stranger’s stomach - there was no reaction, but if he were alive, he would definitely wake up.

The slender, lean body belonged to a man no older than thirty. An expressive, beautiful face with delicate features was framed by golden-wheat hair, which was in a state of slight dishevelment, undoubtedly due to the efforts of the hairdresser. The stranger was wearing expensive clothes: a gray suit, a pale pink shirt, a purple tie with gray stripes. There was even a scarf sticking out of the breast pocket of the jacket, it seemed to be silk. The dead man dared to lie on my rare coffee-colored sofa without taking off his shoes. Horror was mixed with irritation: I hate it when people walk around my house with shoes on. And I don’t care that his leather shoes are probably more expensive than my furniture, I don’t care that he’s dead! I wanted to quickly get rid of the insolent person from the rare thing that I inherited from my parents. You can get killed for such impudence!

Stop! Wasn't it me who killed him? Frost fell on my skin; it seemed that all the hairs on my back and arms stood on end. Memory, the reptile, was silent, the traitorous conscience hid, not making a sound.

The first question is: who is this citizen and how did he end up here? Second: how and who killed him? And the third, most important for me: what to do with the corpse?! Probably, I am a born criminal - my imagination has already drawn pictures of me calling Timur, and, having rolled the dead man into a carpet, we take him out in the trunk of a car to the nearest landing. Or is it better to go out of town altogether? Oh, what if a friend is on a business trip? What then to do with the corpse? Moms, what am I thinking about?! Now I’ll calm down a little and go call where I’m supposed to.

The breast pocket protruded more than expected. Perhaps there are some documents there, under the smart scarf? Without thinking twice, I kicked off my slippers and approached the body. I accidentally touched my hand - it wasn’t numb yet. Yeah, a driver's license in the name of Andrey Nikolaevich Bolkonsky. Wow, just like my favorite hero Tolstoy! It’s a pity that he died, I mean this Bolkonsky, next to whom I’m sitting, and not the writer... However, I also feel sorry for the author of “War and Peace”. And most of all, of course, I feel sorry for myself.

Her dark knights Lana Ezhova

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Title: Her Dark Knights

About the book “Her Dark Knights” by Lana Ezhova

Waking up with no memory of the events of the past two months, in the company of two attractive strangers. Find out that she has become the Voice of Midnight, an incorruptible regulator of conflicts in the world of supernatural beings. With crystal honesty, to gain the abilities of your assistants: the speed of a vampire, the strength of a werewolf, and, in addition, themselves... I never dreamed of all this, not dreaming of being a superhero even in childhood.

Fortunately, there is no need to save the world. But, apparently, you will have to do it yourself. From an enemy who stole memories, from a sorcerer who imagines himself as a second Rumplestiltskin, and from his own knights, to whom, under the influence of the magic of an ancient ritual, he is drawn like a magnet.

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Quotes from the book “Her Dark Knights” by Lana Ezhova

I am after the previous owners, or I arose through the efforts of the watchman.

When you can't help, don't become another victim.

Voice of Midnight - 1

Chapter 1

I woke up in a bathtub full of cold blood.

No, that’s what it seemed to me out of fear - the water turned alarmingly pink in the electric light, and there was definitely blood in it, but in an insignificant amount. The aromatic foam stuck to the sides in sad flakes. There was a dull pain in the back of my head, and my left leg ached above the knee. Raising herself up, she saw a deep wound, as if someone had not only made an incision, but had also picked at it. The blood, strangely, did not flow, as if the thigh had already begun to heal and the water had only softened it.

Where does it come from? What's wrong with your leg? With me? What? I do not remember…

I don’t remember... and it seems I don’t want to remember. There's a ringing in my head. Not a single coherent thought, just something elusively chaotic and now unnecessary.

Staggering, she crawled out of the bath onto the rug. The skin on my palms and feet was wrinkled from being in the water for a long time, and my whole body itched from the bleach. Without drying myself, I put on a robe and tied my leg with a towel - now there is no bleeding, but if I move, will it suddenly gush out?

Mechanically she lowered the bloody font. The funnel, spinning quickly, sucked water, soap suds and my blood into the drain. Wow! Surprise to all surprises! There was a knife at the bottom of the bathtub. Judging by the bone handle and curved blade, it was not intended for kitchen experiments.

The discovery spurred mental activity, dispelling the fog of apathy. It seems that the wound was caused not by someone, but by me. Did she really cut her veins? Hmm, on your leg? And I was going to commit suicide in an original way - with a hunting knife? And she didn’t cut an artery, but stupidly picked at the “meat”? Were you looking for something? Creepy...

I don’t know why, but I wanted to quickly wash away all traces of the failed “suicide.” I rinsed the bathtub and knife with ice water. Then she put the weapon in a niche under the washbasin.

And then I saw her.

There was a cone-shaped silver-colored thing lying on the floor. According to action movies, it's a bullet. If you believe common sense that the humble librarian and the bullet are concepts from different non-contiguous realities, then this is an unidentified part from some strange object. Okay, I’ll figure it out later, but for now let it lie on the shelf with bath accessories.

If the memory has not completely gone into overdrive, then the first aid kit should be in the kitchen, on the shelf with tea and spices. This is true. Cotton wool, peroxide, bandage - all I need.

The blood had already dried and was not oozing, and the cut was not as deep as I had first imagined. Grandfather said it right, fear has big eyes. And yet I treated the wound, and almost without wincing. In the movies, such damage causes heroes to faint. I didn’t experience hellish torment, I bandaged it quickly. How would you know if such wounds need to be sutured? Or will it overgrow on its own? I hated going to the hospital: in queues with grannies you can get hypochondria - they discuss so many different illnesses, real and imagined, that it becomes bad.

It's deep night outside. As I closed the curtains, I noticed that my cactus had grown a little. This is what it means to dive headfirst into work - time flies, you don’t notice anything.

The kettle, put on the fire, reminded of itself with a piercing whistle. Having brewed green with jasmine, I had mercy on my body and took the coveted painkiller pill. Tomorrow I will pay for this with a scattering of red pimples on my face - I am allergic to almost any medicine.

Having poured cookies onto a plate, I realized that if I didn’t watch some comedy, I wouldn’t be able to stand it and would call Timur to cry about my suicide attempt. And my faithful friend will rush in with the “cure for sorrows” - beer, dried fish and salted nuts. And then bags under the eyes and vigorous fumes will be added to the acne. Just what a girl with amnesia needs. Why don't I remember anything? What happened to me? No answer.

Lana Ezhova

Her dark knights

I woke up in a bathtub full of cold blood.

No, it seemed to me out of fear - the water turned alarmingly pink in the electric light, and there was definitely blood in it, but in an insignificant amount. The aromatic foam stuck to the sides in sad flakes. There was a dull pain in the back of my head, and my left leg ached above the knee. Raising herself up, she saw a deep wound, as if someone had not only made an incision, but had also picked at it. The blood, strangely, did not flow, as if the thigh had already begun to heal and the water had only softened it.

Where does it come from? What's wrong with your leg? With me? What? I do not remember…

I don’t remember... and it seems I don’t want to remember. There's a ringing in my head. Not a single coherent thought, just something elusively chaotic and now unnecessary.

Staggering, she crawled out of the bath onto the rug. The skin on my palms and feet was wrinkled from being in the water for a long time, and my whole body itched from the bleach. Without drying myself, I put on a robe and tied my leg with a towel - now there is no bleeding, but if I move, will it suddenly gush out?

Mechanically she lowered the bloody font. The funnel, spinning quickly, sucked water, soap suds and my blood into the drain. Wow! Surprise to all surprises! There was a knife at the bottom of the bathtub. Judging by the bone handle and curved blade, it was not intended for kitchen experiments.

The discovery spurred mental activity, dispelling the fog of apathy. It seems that the wound was caused not by someone, but by me. Did she really cut her veins? Hmm, on your leg? And I was going to take my own life in an original way - with a hunting knife? And she didn’t cut an artery, but stupidly picked at the “meat”? Were you looking for something? Creepy...

I don’t know why, but I wanted to quickly wash away all traces of the failed “suicide.” I rinsed the bathtub and knife with ice water. Then she put the weapon in a niche under the washbasin.

And then I saw her.

There was a cone-shaped silver-colored thing lying on the floor. According to action movies, it's a bullet. If you believe common sense that the humble librarian and the bullet are concepts from different non-contiguous realities, then this is an unidentified part from some strange object. Okay, I’ll figure it out later, but for now let it lie on the shelf with bath accessories.

If the memory has not completely gone into overdrive, then the first aid kit should be in the kitchen, on the shelf with tea and spices. This is true. Cotton wool, peroxide, bandage - all I need.

The blood had already dried and was not oozing, and the cut was not as deep as I had first imagined. Grandfather said it right, fear has big eyes. And yet I treated the wound, and almost without wincing. In the movies, such damage causes heroes to faint. I didn’t experience hellish torment, I bandaged it quickly. How would you know if such wounds need to be sutured? Or will it overgrow on its own? I hated going to the hospital: in queues with grannies you can get hypochondria - they discuss so many different illnesses, real and imagined, that it becomes bad.

It's deep night outside. As I closed the curtains, I noticed that my cactus had grown a little. This is what it means to dive headfirst into work - time flies, you don’t notice anything.

The kettle, put on the fire, reminded of itself with a piercing whistle. Having brewed green with jasmine, I had mercy on my body and took the coveted painkiller pill. Tomorrow I will pay for this with a scattering of red pimples on my face - I am allergic to almost any medicine.

Having poured cookies onto a plate, I realized that if I didn’t watch some comedy, I wouldn’t be able to stand it and call Timur to cry about my suicide attempt. And my faithful friend will rush in with the “cure for sorrows” - beer, dried fish and salted nuts. And then bags under the eyes and vigorous fumes will be added to the acne. Just what a girl with amnesia needs. Why don't I remember anything? What happened to me? No answer. I start to think about it, and it’s as if my temples are being squeezed by a cold hoop.

With tea, a plate of cookies in my hands and a sandwich in my teeth, I went into the room. From the picture he saw, the bread fell out of his mouth and onto the floor, and tea spilled on the carpet. On the sofa – on my favorite sofa! – a corpse lay in front of the silently working TV.

My God, I got it...

The first reaction - fear and shock - was replaced by doubt. Where did I get the idea that this is a corpse? Maybe because he didn’t jump to his feet when I screamed in a heart-rending voice? He was also unnaturally pale, with a peaceful face. This is exactly what the dead look like - I know for sure, since I recently buried my grandfather, and after him my grandmother. And yet the hope that I had rushed to conclusions remained.

With trembling hands, she put the dishes on the coffee table and bent over the body. Lord, please! I beg you, let him live! Let him sleep, just very, very soundly...

Well, well, not with my happiness. I forcefully poked my finger into the stranger’s stomach - there was no reaction, but if he were alive, he would definitely wake up.

The slender, lean body belonged to a man no older than thirty. An expressive, beautiful face with delicate features was framed by golden-wheat hair, which was in a state of slight dishevelment, undoubtedly due to the efforts of the hairdresser. The stranger was wearing expensive clothes: a gray suit, a pale pink shirt, a purple tie with gray stripes. There was even a scarf sticking out of the breast pocket of the jacket, it seemed to be silk. The dead man dared to lie on my rare coffee-colored sofa without taking off his shoes. Horror was mixed with irritation: I hate it when people walk around my house with shoes on. And I don’t care that his leather shoes are probably more expensive than my furniture, I don’t care that he’s dead! I wanted to quickly get rid of the insolent person from the rare thing that I inherited from my parents. You can get killed for such impudence!

Stop! Wasn't it me who killed him? Frost fell on my skin; it seemed that all the hairs on my back and arms stood on end. Memory, the reptile, was silent, the traitorous conscience hid, not making a sound.

The first question is: who is this citizen and how did he end up here? Second: how and who killed him? And the third, most important for me: what to do with the corpse?! Probably, I am a born criminal - my imagination has already drawn pictures of me calling Timur, and, having rolled the dead man into a carpet, we take him out in the trunk of a car to the nearest landing. Or is it better to go out of town altogether? Oh, what if a friend is on a business trip? What then to do with the corpse? Moms, what am I thinking about?! Now I’ll calm down a little and go call where I’m supposed to.

The breast pocket protruded more than expected. Perhaps there are some documents there, under the smart scarf? Without thinking twice, I kicked off my slippers and approached the body. I accidentally touched my hand - it wasn’t numb yet. Yeah, a driver's license in the name of Andrey Nikolaevich Bolkonsky. Wow, just like my favorite hero Tolstoy! It’s a pity that he died, I mean this Bolkonsky, next to whom I’m sitting, and not the writer... However, I also feel sorry for the author of “War and Peace”. And most of all, of course, I feel sorry for myself.

Tears flowed in a continuous, uncontrollable stream. With my head in my hands, I sat down next to the lifeless stranger. What a life? A piece of memory was torn out of my memory... a dead man on my favorite sofa... How did I end up!

- Gerda, what happened? Why are you crying?

I screamed when cool fingers touched my palms.

- A-ah-ah! “With a squeal, she jumped back and crashed onto the floor.

- Gerda! What's wrong with you, little one?!

- Gerda, what happened?

The man slowly hid his hands behind his back, as if indicating that he was not going to touch me anymore.

- You are alive? – asked uncertainly.

Since he “poked” me and called me by name, I am also allowed to be familiar.

“Of course,” the man nodded, watching my every move in surprise. - What will happen to me?

“Then why didn’t you react when I tried to push you away?”

- I thought it was a new game - a sleeping beauty and a girl in a short robe with no underwear underneath...

Following his interested gaze, she blushed and tightened her belt. Stranger - for the life of me, I couldn’t dare call him Andrei Bolkonsky! – he sighed with feigned disappointment.

To get the situation back on track, I went on the offensive:

- What are you doing here? Who are you? And why are you lying on my sofa with your shoes on?

The blond's gray eyes narrowed.

- Gerda, do we continue to play?

- No. What's happening?

- Little one, did you hit your head? – he chuckled cheerfully.

And I'll admit it:

- Yes. The back of the head. Probably while taking a bath. And now I don’t remember everything. You exactly.

The blonde cursed. No, I didn’t understand what exactly he said, if I’m not mistaken, in French. But the raised tone and emotion in his voice indicated that he was not praising this wonderful night.

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