Книга - Dark of the Moon

Dark of the Moon
Susan Krinard


They called him the Enforcer His iron fist once kept the warring vampire clans of decadent 1920s New York from one another’s throats. But now, outcast from his own kind Dorian Black haunts the back alleys of Manhattan alone…Until the night he meets reporter Gwen Murphy and feels something stir within him for the first time in centuries. Gwen is determined to uncover the truth about a mysterious gang of blood-drinkers despite the danger, but she never expected to give over her heart to tall, dark Dorian. And now, in order protect Gwen, he may be forced to do the unthinkable…







Dorian should have stopped it then and there.

He should have put on his bloodstained shirt and left the hotel room until his mind was clear.

But Gwen didn’t let go. She tucked her forehead into the hollow of his shoulder, exposing the pale, elegant length of her neck beneath red curls. Dorian’s mouth flooded with saliva and the chemicals that would numb her to his bite, to everything but the blissful pleasure he would give in exchange for her sweet blood.

He lowered his head and kissed her vulnerable skin. She trembled. He bit gently. She flinched and relaxed as the chemicals did their work, her body softening in his arms.





Dark of the Moon


By




Susan Krinard











www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/)


In loving memory of my dear friend, loyal companion and soul mate. I will never forget you. Brownie 1993-2007


“Seeking to forget makes exile all the longer; the secret of redemption lies in remembrance.”

—Richard von Weizsaecker




Acknowledgement:


Special thanks to Jakob Whitfield for his generous help with 1920s aircraft and to Sun Ray Verstraete for providing Spanish words and phrases.




PROLOGUE


HIS HANDS WERE stained with blood.

Dorian ran blindly through the woods, the inside of his head roaring with emptiness. Branches tore at his clothing and scraped at his skin. Bloody scratches streaked his flesh, closing before he could run another hundred paces. He felt no pain. He felt nothing except the disintegration of his mind.

Raoul was dead.

The gun had become part of Dorian’s hand, metal seared into his palm like a brand.

Raoul was dead, and there was no undoing it.

He didn’t know how far he traveled before he came to himself again. He stopped at the edge of a small human town, somnolent in the warm summer sun. People stared as he walked down the main street, a man bundled up in ragged clothing and mudstained shoes. One good Samaritan, a middle-aged man with deep laugh lines around his eyes and work-roughened hands, called to Dorian as he passed by.

“Are you all right, mister?” he asked. “Need some help?”

Dorian turned to look at the human, hardly comprehending the offer. No one had ever asked such a question of him before. But when he met the man’s gaze, the human flinched, backed away and quickly left Dorian to himself.

So it had always been. They were always afraid.

With that grim knowledge, Dorian’s sense returned. He found a twenty-dollar bill in his wallet and walked to the town’s tiny bus terminal. No one on the bus would meet his eyes. He sat quietly in his seat until the bus arrived in Manhattan. He got off and began to walk again, letting his feet carry him where they chose.

He could not go home. There was no home with Raoul dead and the clan in shambles.

How he came to the East River, he never did remember. The waterfront was raucous with human activity, heavy with the smells of oil and sweat and stagnant water. Dorian drifted alongside the river, looking down at the greasy black surface.

It was hard to kill a vampire. It was even harder for a vampire to kill himself. But Dorian had never lacked will.

He stood on the edge of the pier, the toes of his shoes hanging over the edge. One more step was all it would take.

“I wouldn’t do that if I was you.”

The old man came up behind Dorian, favoring a gimpy leg and squinting through a nest of wrinkles. He was lean as an old hound, dressed in a motley collection of rags.

And he wasn’t afraid.

“It can’t be as bad as all that,” the man said, offering a smile that was missing several teeth. “Never is.” He shoved his hands in his torn pockets. “Everyone’s down on their luck now and then. That’s why folks like us got to stick together.”

Dorian stared at the man. The man stared back.

“Name’s Walter. Walter Brenner.” He thrust out his hand. Dorian hesitated. No human had ever done that before, either.

“I ain’t got no diseases, if that’s what you’re scared of,” Brenner said. “But I do have a little food, if you’re hungry. And a place to sleep, at least for tonight. Then you can decide what’s best to do. Things always look better in the morning.”

Slowly Dorian took the gnarled and knotted hand. “Dorian,” he said. “Dorian Black.”

“Well, Dorian Black, you’d better come along with me. That’s a good lad. Ol’ Walter will take care of you.”

Dorian went. There was nothing else to do.

He was free, but his life was over.




CHAPTER ONE


October 1926, New York City

THE BLACK SUCKING water closed over her head. She flailed blindly, her arms and legs as heavy and inert as logs. Red light flashed violently behind her eyes; she couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but cling to the instinct that kept her from opening her mouth and swallowing the vile brew that swirled around her.

Is this what it’s like to die?

The thought came and went in a moment of lucidity that vanished before she could grasp it. She sank, her muscles no longer obeying the weak commands of her brain. A fish, goggle-eyed, paused to examine her in astonishment and then disappeared into the sable depths. Her lungs began to burn.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe…

A stream of bubbles spilled from her lips. All at once she remembered. She looked up at the distant, pale blur of reflected moonlight shining on the river’s surface. It was a million miles away.

Swim. Swim, damn you.

But the air was gone, salvation beyond her reach. She stretched her arms, clutching at a substance that literally slipped through her fingers. An inky curtain fell over her eyes. She made one great effort, propelling her aching body a few feet closer to heaven.

Something gripped her hand, seizing her like the jaws of a killer shark. Her cry emptied her lungs. The last thing she saw was a face…a face that might have belonged to an angel or the most enchanting devil hell ever imagined.

“BREATHE!”

The voice was both harsh and beautiful, like music from another world. It came from very far away, a place out of space and time, and yet it pulled her from the seductive darkness with all the tenderness of a mob enforcer working over some poor schmuck in an alley.

Rough hands turned her over and pummeled her back. A rush of liquid surged into her throat and pushed out of her mouth. She coughed violently, jagged sparks zigzagging through her brain.

“Breathe!”

She gasped. Blessed air flooded her chest. The hands that had shaken and bullied her softened on her arms and lifted her against a warm, firm surface. She heard a heartbeat, slow and steady, felt ridges of muscle under a once-fine broadcloth shirt, smelled a slightly pungent but not unpleasant scent, as if the one who held her had been living in the same clothes for a week.

Still dazed, shivering from a chill dawn wind against her wet skin, she let herself be held. It was absurd to feel so safe in the arms of a total stranger, even one who had saved her life. Crazy to feel as if she could stay there forever.

She pushed at her rescuer, muscles still not entirely under her control. He released her and steadied her as she struggled into a sitting position on the weathered wood of the pier.

For the first time she got a good look at his face. It was the devil-angel she’d seen in the river, distorted then by brackish water and her own clouded vision. Now that she could see him more clearly, she still couldn’t decide if he belonged in Heaven or that other place.

His features were those of a young man in his prime, handsome in the truest sense of the word. Bright moonlight picked out planes and angles joined in perfect symmetry. His skin was smooth, free of stubble, though everything else about his appearance suggested that he hadn’t seen a razor in several days. His cheekbones were high, his chin firm and a little square, his hair dark and badly in need of a good cut, his brows straight above deeply shadowed eyes.

It was the eyes that captured her attention. Gwen couldn’t make out their color, but that hardly mattered. They simply didn’t belong in the face of a good Samaritan who had probably risked his life to save a stranger, a man in his midtwenties with at least forty good years ahead of him. They were as dangerous as a storm about to break, as grim as the bloodstained steel of a Thompson’s machine gun. If they’d ever seen a smile, it was in some distant past she could scarcely imagine.

Most women—yes, even most men—would have cringed from that remorseless gaze. Not Gwen Murphy. She continued her scrutiny, taking in the frayed cuffs of his shirt, the jacket that had seen better days, the patched trousers and scuffed shoes. This was a fellow down on his luck; there were still people like him in New York, though business was booming and almost everyone seemed to be sharing in the general prosperity.

Everyone except the unlucky few: men crippled in the Great War, widows struggling to raise fatherless children, immigrants who hadn’t yet found their way in a strange country, drunks who couldn’t keep money in their pockets.

Her savior looked perfectly healthy and whole. He didn’t appear to be drunk. He could be a foreigner who didn’t speak enough English to find a decent job.

There was only one way to find out.

“You saved my life,” she said, her voice emerging as a croak. “Thanks.”

The man cocked his head, his gaze still locked on hers.

She cleared her throat and tugged her drenched glove from her shaking right hand. “I’m Gwen Murphy,” she said, offering the hand.

He glanced down, studying her trembling fingers as if he suspected she had some nasty and highly contagious disease. She was about to withdraw her hand when he seized it in the same bulldog grip that had snatched her from a watery grave.

“Dorian,” he said, filling the air with that strange music. “Dorian Black.”

Gwen almost laughed. She recognized the edge of hysteria that lurked beneath her enforced calm and swallowed the laughter. Once she started, she might have a hard time stopping. And Mr. Black didn’t look as though he would appreciate the reaction.

“Mr. Black,” she said, returning his grip as firmly as she could. “I don’t know how you happened to show up right when I needed you, but I’m grateful.”

He dropped her hand and curled his fingers against his thigh. “It was no trouble,” he said, each word clearly enunciated, as if English were a second language painstakingly acquired. “Do you require a doctor?”

She suppressed a shiver. “I’m all right. Just a little cold. And waterlogged.”

Still no smile cracked his sculpted face, but his brows drew down in an expression that might have been concern. He shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. The coat wasn’t entirely clean, but Gwen was grateful for both the warmth and the gesture.

“Thanks,” she said.

He lifted one shoulder in a shrug that betrayed a whole world of discomfort. “How did it happen?” he asked.

The question took Gwen a little by surprise. Black was so taciturn that prying an interview out of him would be worse than pulling teeth. Maybe he wasn’t really interested, but she had to give him points for trying.

“I’m a reporter for the Sentinel,” she said. “I was on the docks investigating a lead when I was jumped by some hooligans who thought I’d be an easy mark.” She suffered an annoying surge of embarrassment and probed at the growing bump on the back of her head. “I wasn’t that easy. When I fought back, one of them hit me over the head and dumped me in the river.”

Black’s eyes narrowed. He looked up the pier to the boardwalk, as if he might still find the young men who’d done the deed. Even if they’d hung around to make sure their victim had well and truly drowned, they would be lost to sight; the nearest street lamp was a hundred yards away, and there were plenty of places to hide. It was close enough to dawn that longshoremen and sailors on leave were starting to turn up at the docks. If it weren’t for the relative isolation of this particular pier, the roughnecks never could have gotten away with their attack in the first place.

“Do you usually come to Hell’s Kitchen in the middle of the night?” Black asked, turning back to her with subtle menace.

Gwen sat up straighter, squaring her shoulders beneath the oversized jacket. “Certain activities are less conspicuous in the dark,” she said. “I didn’t want to be seen.”

“Someone saw you.”

“But not one of the someones I was trying to avoid.”

“And who would they be, Miss Murphy?”

Sudden nausea gripped Gwen’s stomach. “That’s confidential,” she said. Her ankles wobbled as she struggled to stand. “I think I’d…better call a taxi.”

Black jumped to his feet with an athlete’s grace and caught her arm as she tottered and nearly fell. “You’re in no condition to walk alone, Miss Murphy. I will escort you to the nearest telephone.”

“Really, I’ll be fine.”

Without answering, he pulled her closer to the dry heat of his body and led her a few halting steps. The nausea increased, creeping up into her throat. It had to be a combination of things: the filthy water she’d ingested, the head injury, the shock of nearly dying. She should be able to overcome it. She was Eamon Murphy’s daughter, for God’s sake…

Black stopped. “You won’t make it,” he said bluntly.

“Yes, I will. I just need a little more time.”

Her savior looked pointedly toward the east, where the sun was rising over Queens. “No time,” he muttered, and then raised his voice. “You will come with me.”

Gwen passed her hand over her face, fighting a nasty headache. “Come with you where?”

“To a place where you can rest.”

Her skin prickled with warning. “I’m grateful. I really am, Mr. Black. I’d certainly—” Bile pushed into her throat. “I’d like to return the favor, but I have to get back. If you’ll just…”

A flood of sickness overwhelmed her. She jerked away from Black, emptying her stomach. The humiliation was excruciating. She wasn’t some damned cub reporter who couldn’t deal with a little adversity.

A steadying hand touched her elbow. She pushed it away.

“I’m fine,” she said.

“You’re coming with me, Miss Murphy.”

She shook her head, and suddenly she was seeing stars. Her lungs seemed filled with concrete. She couldn’t catch her breath. It was the darkness all over again, dragging her down like the treacherous river currents.

The water closed over her head, and this time there was no reaching the surface.

VOICES WOKE HER. The first thing Gwen noticed was that she was lying on something reasonably soft. She listened for a moment before opening her eyes, recognizing the newly familiar intonation of the enigmatic stranger who called himself Dorian Black. The other voice was older and less steady, slurred with drink and amiably loquacious. The conversation was too soft to be intelligible, and when Gwen opened her eyes she saw only her darkhaired savior, crouching in the light of an old-fashioned gas lamp.

His eyes were gray. They’d seemed colorless in the night, yet she’d thought of steel. She’d guessed correctly. That granite stare gave no quarter and asked for none.

Gwen tried to sit up. Black pushed her back down, his hand spread on her chest with no apparent regard for her anatomy. The feel of his palm on her breasts, her flesh and his separated by only the thin georgette of her blouse, startled her into stillness.

Apparently he’d judged that she would be more comfortable without her jacket or his, but at least he hadn’t relieved her of anything else but her shoes. Her skirt, hose and blouse were nearly dry, hinting at the length of time she’d been under Black’s care.

She hated the very idea that she’d been so helpless.

“Where am I?” she demanded.

He held her gaze with unnerving steadiness. “In a safe place.”

Some answer, Gwen thought, turning her head to examine the space around her. To the left was a solid, windowless wooden wall. To the right Black loomed over her, blocking her view. She couldn’t have seen much beyond the reach of the lamp in any case, but she sensed an open area partitioned off by the stacked crates that created a sort of room just large enough to accommodate her makeshift bed, a stool with one wobbly leg, and a smaller crate spread with a few items, including a mug, a basin and sundry objects she couldn’t quite make out. Hanging from nails hammered into the stacked crates were a pair of stained and threadbare shirts, a patched jacket, and a folded set of frayed trousers. It was evident that Black had made a home for himself in a place most people would consign to spiders and rats.

She’d seen men living under worse conditions, but not often.

“Are we still on the docks?” she asked.

He nodded, apparently considering a verbal reply unnecessary. Gwen pushed herself halfway up on her elbows.

“I guess I fainted,” she said, swallowing her pride.

“You fell unconscious,” Black said.

“You aren’t responsible for me just because you saved my life.”

He arched a brow at her sharp tone, and for a fleeting moment she thought she saw a sort of smile on his lips. “Having saved your life,” he said, “I would not like to see my efforts go to waste.”

“It must be daylight by now. Someone else would have found me.”

He shifted his weight, letting his long, elegant hands fall between his spread knees. “You do not strike me as the sort of woman who would want to be discovered sprawled on the boardwalk in a pool of her own vomit.”

His bluntness took her aback, but she couldn’t fault him for it. She preferred straight talk herself…a characteristic that often flabbergasted her male associates at the Sentinel.

“Well,” she said, “when you put it that way…” She licked her lips. “You wouldn’t happen to have some water, would you?”

He turned away, lifted a cracked pitcher from the table crate and poured a measure of water into the mug. Gwen took it hesitantly, gave a surreptitious sniff and put her lips to the rim. The water was surprisingly fresh.

“Thanks,” she said, handing the mug back to him. She opened her mouth to begin another argument about why he should let her go, but the words died in her throat. She found herself staring at him instead…staring like a girl suddenly confronted in the flesh with her favorite matinee idol. It was the most ridiculous thing in the world. And she couldn’t help herself.

“Who are you?” she said. “I mean, what is this place, and what are you doing here?”

He regarded her for a moment, as if he were considering whether or not it was worth his while to answer. At last he settled back against the crates behind him, stretching his legs across the space between them.

“I’ve told you my name,” he said. “I and a few others live in this abandoned warehouse. We trouble no one.”

She wondered why he’d included that last statement. Did he suspect that she’d detected something dangerous in his eyes?

“Most people wouldn’t live this way by choice,” she said.

His eyes took on a bleakness that hinted of some past tragedy, which came as no surprise to Gwen. “I don’t see what business that is of yours,” he said.

Pride. Even men without homes had it, sometimes more than those who had everything. Gwen knew she should just shut up and leave well enough alone. After all, once she walked out of this place, she would probably never see Dorian Black again.

But she’d spent a lot of time on the streets talking to people who didn’t know what it was like to make a fortune on Wall Street or drive the latest model sedan…who didn’t even know where their next meal was coming from. Telling the stories of the forgotten men and women of New York had been her personal crusade. Until Dad had died, and left her with his own private obsession.

There was something about Dorian Black that just wouldn’t let her leave it alone, something that told her he wasn’t the average unemployed guy with a chip on his shoulder. She would almost have guessed he’d come from a criminal background.

But your typical petty criminal didn’t usually let himself sink into dire poverty. He was either in jail or setting up another job, selecting another mark, planning a new scam. He was by no means the kind who would save someone from drowning. And guys involved with the mobs didn’t generally find themselves on the street. They were either working for a gang or, if for some reason they lost their usefulness, they were disposed of. It was just too dangerous for any mob boss to let one of his former subordinates run loose.

So what in hell was he?

She girded her loins and shaped her voice to a careful neutrality. “You’ve fallen on hard times,” she said.

He shrugged.

“You haven’t been able to find a job,” she persisted.

Something large rustled among the crates, and Gwen thought she glimpsed a long, naked tail. She shuddered. Black ignored the noise and leaned his head back against the crates.

“Why should you think I want employment?” he asked.

Deliberately testing him, she sat up. “You’re young and healthy,” she said. “Obviously intelligent. Educated.”

“So?”

That voice could have stopped a train in its tracks. Gwen held his gaze. “Let’s just say that I’d like to know a little more about the kind of man who’d rescue a total stranger.”

“You doubt the natural gallantry of the stronger sex?”

She stifled a snort. “I’m not a romantic, Mr. Black.”

“Neither am I.”

“Nevertheless, I’d really like to hear how you came to be living here. Are you alone in the city?”

His face was expressionless. “Would you perhaps be planning to write a special-interest story for your paper, Miss Murphy? An essay on the plight of unemployed men who live on the docks?”

Weary cynicism laced his words. She almost felt guilty. “If I did write such a piece, Mr. Black, I wouldn’t use your name. But that isn’t my intention.” She scooted around to lean with her back against the wall, drawing her knees up and pulling her coat over them to preserve her modesty. “Were you in the War, Mr. Black?”

“No.”

If there was one thing Gwen was good at, it was telling when someone was lying. She saw the true answer in Black’s eyes even before he opened his mouth to speak. They clouded over, losing their sharpness. As if he were remembering. As if he feared that another word might send him tumbling back in time to a world he had never quite left.

She swallowed, dodging memories of her own. Black had saved her life, but she didn’t think he would want her hanging around dredging up memories of the past, and there was another subject she wanted to cover before he tossed her out on her ear.

“You must know just about everything that goes on around here,” she said.

He frowned at her sudden change of subject. “Perhaps.”

“Are you familiar with the recent murders?”

Abruptly he rose. His movements were jerky, lacking all their earlier grace. “Is that why you’re here, Miss Murphy? To investigate the murders?”

Gwen was certain then that he not only knew about the bizarre deaths, but that he had some personal interest in them. Perhaps he’d seen something. Perhaps he’d witnessed the attacks, or had an idea who’d committed the crimes. Maybe—

Whoa, girl, Gwen thought. Even if her instincts were generally correct, this wasn’t the time to let them run away with her.

“According to the coroner,” she said cautiously, “the bodies must have been lying on the boardwalk for several hours before the police were called in.”

Black turned his head from side to side as if he were seeking an escape route. “You should leave well enough alone, Miss Murphy,” he said.

“I can’t. You were right, Mr. Black. It’s my job to investigate how such a terrible thing happened and who might have done it.”

“They put a woman in charge of such a task?”

“You’d be surprised how good we are at finding angles men don’t even consider.”

“Such as visiting the docks alone and unarmed?”

“The prospective witness I was supposed to meet didn’t show up.” She studied his face intently. “You don’t happen to know a man who goes by the name of Flat-Nose Jones, do you?”

“No.”

Lying again, though he did it very well indeed. “I figure he either lost his nerve or met with an accident before he could tell his story, whatever it was.”

“Perhaps he should have been more discreet.”

“I can’t blame anyone who keeps his mouth shut under these circumstances. The bodies were obviously left as some kind of message. By someone with a very bad grudge.”

“You would seem to have your suspects already, Miss Murphy.”

“I have a few ideas. Whoever killed those men was obviously deranged.”

Black said nothing. He paced across the small space, fists clenched. “Are you certain the roughnecks who assaulted you were not attempting to silence your inquiry?”

“Those kids? They were amateurs. They might dump a troublesome mark in the river, but they wouldn’t think to drain all the blood out of one of their victims. The corpses were completely…”

Her words trailed off as Black came to a sudden halt. His face flushed and then went pale. His pupils shrank to pinpoints, though the makeshift room remained as dark as ever. His fingers opened and closed, opened and closed, in a sharp, disturbing rhythm.

“Mr. Black?”

His breathing became labored. “No,” he muttered between clenched teeth. “I wasn’t…”

Gwen began to rise. “Dorian, are you all—”

He swung on her, teeth bared. Cruelty and rage replaced pain and bewilderment. The tendons stood out in his neck, his pulse throbbing visibly at the base of his throat. Muscle bulged beneath his shirt. His fingers arced like claws.

There was nothing human in his face. Nothing that regarded her as anything but an enemy.

Or prey.




CHAPTER TWO


GWEN PUSHED UPWARD against the wall, letting her coat puddle at her feet. Maybe it would have been better to remain still, but she intended to be prepared if he attacked. Even if she didn’t stand a chance against him.

“Mr. Black,” she said. “Dorian. It’s me, Gwen.”

His lips curled, and she saw that his incisors were ever so slightly pointed. Like a wolf, she thought. Or a stalking tiger just before it tore out the throat of a hapless deer in some Far Eastern jungle.

For an instant she considered the possibility that she’d been looking for the killers in all the wrong places. Maybe the murders weren’t the work of a group of lunatics. Maybe one man—a man sufficiently strong and clever and crazy—was responsible for the bloodbath.

But then she remembered the gentle arms around her, the face so full of remembered pain, and she knew her suspicions were worse than insane.

Dorian Black had been crippled by a terrible experience. He was troubled and sick, but he was no murderer.

“You don’t want to hurt me, Dorian,” she said, touching the cross at her throat. “You’re a good man. I want to help you.”

A sound came out of his throat, fury and despair intermingled. He whirled about and slammed his hands against the crates, toppling them like a child’s blocks. When he turned back, his face was slack, like that of a man sinking into sleep.

“Go,” he said hoarsely. “Get out of here.”

“I’m not leaving you like this.”

Slowly he raised his head. He might as well have been blind. “Please.”

That pride again. Pride and dread and horror. Here was a man who had suffered, who had lost control, who hated himself for his weakness. Gwen had seen it all before. Barry had sacrificed everything to the War. He’d come home so badly shell-shocked that marriage had been out of the question. Even his family couldn’t take care of him. He’d been at the asylum for two years before he shot himself.

Men who seemed to have no visible wounds from the War were sometimes the most damaged of all. Barry used to scream at the slightest glimpse of blood.

You thought you were safe here, Mr. Black, Gwen thought. Away from people, hovering on the edge of life. But you couldn’t escape, could you?

“It’s all right,” she said aloud. “I’m not afraid.”

“You should be.”

“You wouldn’t do me any harm, Dorian. I’m sure of that.”

He passed his hand across his face, pushing his dark hair into disorder. “Naive,” he said. “Naive, foolish…”

“Not as naive as you think. You need a doctor, Dorian. Someone to talk to.”

“No doctor can help me.”

How could she hope to convince him, when all the best doctors in New York hadn’t been able to cure Barry?

“All right,” she said. “I can’t force you.” But I sure as hell can wear you down, Dorian Black. Because I owe you. I pay my debts.

And if you can help me find the murderers…

She shook off the unworthy thought and flung her coat over her shoulders. “I’ll go now,” she said. “But if I can do anything for you, anything at all…” She suddenly remembered that her cards were gone, along with her pocketbook, doubtless stolen by the young hooligans. She didn’t even have a nickel for a telephone call.

Well, at least she was alive and fully capable of walking now that the sickness had passed. She could ankle it to the nearest police station and call from there.

She looked at Dorian, struck by a powerful urge to stroke the wayward hair out of his face. He wouldn’t welcome such familiarity. Maybe he was even regretting pulling her out of the river.

“Listen,” she said. “I’d like to come back sometime. Maybe I can’t completely repay what you’ve done for me—”

“I don’t want your charity.”

“Couldn’t you at least accept a haircut? I’m a mean one with the shears.”

His eyes were still clouded, dull with exhaustion and that strange paralysis she’d so often seen in Barry before his death. He didn’t meet her gaze.

“Don’t come back,” he said.

Gwen puffed out her cheeks. Sometimes it doesn’t do any good to argue, Dad had told her more than once. Learn to let it go, Gwen. Learn to be patient. Sometimes patience is what a reporter needs most.

And patience was a virtue she still hadn’t quite mastered. But she was willing to give it the old college try. For Dorian’s sake.

“Okay,” she said. “How do I get out of this place?”

“I’ll show you.”

The voice belonged to the other man she’d heard speaking when she’d woken up. He came out of the shadows, an old gentleman with clothing every bit as worn as Dorian’s. His face was seamed with deep wrinkles, his nose had been broken in several places, and his eyes were filled with that sort of peculiar sweet-tempered innocence that blessed a certain type of inebriate.

“Name’s Walter,” he said, tipping a moth-eaten fedora. “Walter Brenner. We don’t have too many ladies visit us. Wouldn’t want you to think we’re lacking in manners.”

“How do you do, Walter,” Gwen said, offering her hand. “I’m Gwen Murphy.”

“So I heard.” His palm was dry and papery. “Had a bit of a dip in the river, did you?”

“A regular soaking.” She walked with him out of the warehouse. “I’m lucky Mr. Black happened to be there.”

He ducked his head conspiratorially. “Dorian ain’t always like that, you know, so short-tempered and all. It’s just this mood…comes on him regular, every few weeks, like. Best to leave him alone until it passes.”

“I understand. Have you known Dorian long?”

“’Bout as long as he’s been on the waterfront. Three months, I figure.”

“Do you know anything about his past?”

“He’s been through something awful, Miss Gwen. Don’t know what it is. He won’t talk.”

“He’s never mentioned the War?”

“Nope. Could be that’s it, but I worry about him. He don’t go out, except at night. Holes up here during the day like one of our rats. And he hardly eats. He brings stuff for me, but he don’t touch nothin’ but crumbs.”

Gwen remembered the bleakness of Dorian’s “room.” There hadn’t been a sign of food, not even the crumbs Walter spoke of.

“You’re his friend,” she said. “You want to help him, don’t you?”

“Sure. He took care of me when I was sick. My heart, you know. Gives out sometimes. Don’t know what I’d do without Dory.”

Gwen decided to risk a more troubling question. “Did you see the bodies, Walter?”

The old man shuddered. “Heard about them. But he saw. Made it worse, next time he had one of his nasty spells.” He touched Gwen’s arm tentatively. “He ain’t bad. You see that. I never seen him take such an interest in another human being until he brought you here.”

Interest. Under normal circumstances, Gwen never would have interpreted Dorian’s behavior as anything but grudging tolerance. But she had only begun to glimpse what might be in Dorian’s soul. And she knew she had to keep digging until she discovered exactly what made him tick…and why he had aroused her curiosity in a way no one had done since Barry died.

“You’ll come back, won’t you?” Walter said, as he led Gwen out into the sunlight. “Do him good. I know it would.”

Gwen met the old man’s gaze. “Even if I didn’t have other reasons for coming back to the waterfront, I wouldn’t abandon him. He saved my life.”

“But it’s more than that, ain’t it?” Walter peered up at her with greater perception than his drawl and easygoing manner suggested. “Dory ain’t easy to like, but you like him anyway.”

Did she? Gwen looked away, testing her feelings as carefully as she might probe a sore tooth. Mitch and the other reporters thought she was too impulsive and emotional, like all women. But when it came to men…

Like him? Maybe. And if she were completely honest with herself, as she always tried to be, she would admit that she found Dorian Black strangely attractive. His looks had something to do with it, but it went deeper than that.

“You’re a crusader,” Mitch frequently told her. “That’ll be your downfall, Guinevere.”

She knew damned well that she couldn’t save the world. But she might save one tiny part of it.

“Don’t worry, Walter. I promise I’ll do what I can.”

Apparently satisfied, Walter retreated into the shadows, doubtless to nurse a bottle for the rest of the afternoon. At least Dorian Black didn’t seem to drink. Maybe he would have been better off if he did.

With a half shrug, Gwen set off to find the nearest police station.

DORIAN WATCHED HER walk away, careful to remain within the shelter of the warehouse door. She had a long, confident stride; the wool worsted suit, with its boxy jacket and pleated kneelength skirt, was plain and businesslike, but it didn’t disguise the curves of her figure or the bounce of her walk.

Gwen Murphy. He’d never heard her name before last night; even when he’d worked for Raoul, he hadn’t paid much attention to the newspapers. That hadn’t been his department. He’d done his job, dispassionately and efficiently, until the world he knew came crashing down around him.

It was about to fall apart all over again, the way it did every month at the dark of the moon. He’d begun to feel the first effects a few days ago: irritability, confusion, thoughts spinning out of control. And his emotions…they could be trusted least of all. He only had to remember how he’d turned on Gwen like an animal, fully prepared to drain her dry.

He shuddered, thinking of the bodies on the wharf. At least he was reasonably certain that the murders weren’t his doing. As far as he could remember, he hadn’t killed anyone since Raoul’s death.

No, that massacre was almost certainly the work of one of the warring factions that had formed after the clan had disintegrated. Though Dorian had deliberately removed himself from any involvement in strigoi affairs, he had no doubt that the level of violence committed by the city’s vampires against their own kind had increased in the past three months. Internecine bloodshed was no longer simply a matter of one clan leader keeping his subordinates and human employees in line. It had become a case of two well-matched coalitions vying for control of Raoul’s carefully built bootlegging operation and all the power that went with it.

Regardless of the reason for the killings, whoever was responsible for them had either been extraordinarily foolish or dangerously overzealous to have left the corpses drained of blood. Such unusual characteristics set the murders apart from the usual human mob hit—and attracted the attention of inquisitive humans like Miss Gwen Murphy.

Dorian turned away from the light. The fate of New York’s strigoi was no longer any of his concern. His own life had become a weary succession of nights spent hunting just enough to keep his body functioning, days crouched in his fetid den with nothing but the company of an old man who had no idea who or what he was. Only the instinct for survival, a vampire’s deepest and most powerful impulse, had kept him from letting his body fade into oblivion.

But now there was something else. Something he hadn’t expected. Something that had started when he’d seen the girl sinking beneath the river’s surface and had made the decision to save a human life.

Gwen Murphy. She should have meant nothing more to him than what humans called a “good deed,” an act that made not the slightest dent in the vast weight of guilt accumulated over three quarters of a century.

Dorian rubbed at his face, feeling the raw bones of his cheek and jaw. He still had no clear understanding of what had happened, what unfamiliar impulse had led him to bring her here and watch over her until she could take care of herself. It hadn’t been a simple hunger; he hadn’t even been thinking of feeding when he’d rescued her. Nor had it been the troubling attraction with which he found himself struggling now.

If Miss Murphy had collapsed into a hysterical heap on the boardwalk after he’d pulled her from the river, he might have dismissed her. Old habits were slow to die, and he had no more need for human companionship than he did for that of his own kind.

But Gwen hadn’t collapsed. She’d gamely accepted what had been done to her, and if it hadn’t been for her body’s very human weakness, she would have gone on as if nothing had happened.

That had made all the difference. Her courage had awakened Dorian’s emotions as nothing had done since he’d held a gun in his hand and put an end to an evil few mortals could comprehend. Her refusal to surrender to fear had reminded him of the only other woman who had been capable of touching his heart.

Dorian returned to his corner, carefully restacked the crates and sank down against the wall. Of course he’d realized his mistake as soon as she’d started to ask questions, to behave as if his heedless act had created some sort of bond between them. He had tried to get rid of her even before his vague admiration had begun to give way to a reaction far more insidious: a growing awareness of her piquant beauty, the scent of her skin, the allure of her femininity.

If the sensation had been only the natural hunger for her blood, he could have assuaged it quickly and sent Miss Murphy away none the wiser, as he had a thousand other humans. But he’d wanted her with a dangerous insanity that became more deadly when he’d recognized how easily he could hurt her, how thin was the line between physical lust and violence.

He didn’t want to hurt her. He didn’t want the responsibility for what she might feel if she looked beyond her noble determination to help him and discovered that he desired her, even in the most human sense of the word.

Their relationship would never advance so far. There would be no relationship, no feelings, no joining in any sense of the word. If she came back…

“Penny for your thoughts.”

Walter ambled into the room and crouched next to Dorian, a half-empty whiskey bottle dangling from his hand. “Don’t tell me,” he said. “I can guess. She’s quite a peach, ain’t she?”

Dorian sighed. There wasn’t any point in reasoning with Walter. For all his easy nature, he was as irrational as any other human. In fact, he was worse than most. He saw everything through a prism of optimism and goodwill.

“She is an unusual woman,” Dorian admitted, resigned to an awkward conversation. “I would like to think that she won’t venture here again without a proper escort.”

“Ha,” Walter snorted. “You don’t know women, Dory. Though I never could understand how a man like you could turn out so ignorant of the fair sex.” He scratched his shoulder. “You’d better get used to the fact that she’s taken a shine to you.”

“I doubt that her interest will be of long duration.”

“Saving someone’s life tends to make a body grateful.”

“I made it clear that I don’t desire her gratitude.”

“You just can’t tell someone what to feel, Dory. Did you ever consider she might do you some good?”

“I would hardly wish to save her life only to ruin it.”

“Your problem is that you don’t have any faith in yourself. Just because you have a problem don’t mean it ain’t fixable. Maybe all you need’s a little encouragement.”

“I get plenty of that from you.”

“It ain’t enough. She’s the type you’d listen to. She’s brave and smart. I’m just an ignorant old man.”

And as harmless as a scorpion, Dorian thought. “Perhaps I won’t be here when she comes back.”

Walter got to his feet. “Oh, you’ll be here. You got nowhere else to go.” He took a swig from the bottle, offered it to Dorian as he always did, and shrugged when Dorian refused. His walk was a little unsteady as he returned to his own dark corner.

A muffled silence fell in the warehouse. It was empty now except for Dorian and Walter; other men came and went, but most felt uneasy in Dorian’s presence even when he was perfectly sane. They moved on after a few weeks, leaving him to his welcome solitude.

Solitude he could only pray Gwen Murphy would never break again.

THE CITY ROOM WAS busy when Gwen arrived, as it was at almost any time of day. Reporters at their desks shouted into telephone receivers or punched at typewriters, pencils tucked behind their ears. Eager copy boys rushed back and forth doing errands and carrying messages for their superiors. Mr. Spellman, red in the face, was gesticulating at an assistant editor behind the glass walls of his office.

It was all comfortingly familiar. No one had noticed her arrival. Mitch wasn’t at his desk, but then again, he seldom was. He preferred legwork to the labor of composition. Gwen waved at one of the friendlier reporters and left the city room for the small office to which she and the less privileged employees were relegated.

Lavinia was filing her nails, watching the melée across the hall with a vaguely amused expression on her long face. She caught sight of Gwen and waggled her fingers. Gwen wound her way between the desks to Lavinia’s quiet corner and fell into a chair.

“What is it, honey?” Lavinia said, subjecting Gwen to a pointed inspection. “You look like something the cat dragged in.”

Gwen laughed. “That’s exactly what I feel like.”

And that was putting it mildly. She could still taste river water and feel it in her hair, in spite of a quick bath and change of clothes. In the taxi back to the office she’d gotten the shakes, finally realizing how close she’d come to death.

“That bad, huh?” Lavinia said. She offered Gwen a cigarette. “Take this, honey. It’ll make you feel better.”

“Thanks, Vinnie, but you know I don’t smoke.”

“Pity.” Lavinia lit her own cigarette and took a drag. “Where have you been all day? I was beginning to worry.”

“You know I went down to the waterfront—”

“In spite of Spellman’s lecture about sticking to your own beat.”

“The society pages are your bailiwick, not mine.”

“You mean they aren’t good enough for you. No, I’m not scolding. It’s boring as hell, even for an old lady like me.”

Gwen planted her elbow on the desk and leaned her chin in her palm. “No one does it better than you, Vinnie.”

“Sure.” The older woman stubbed out her cigarette. “So how did it all come out?”

“My contact didn’t show.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“I might have found another lead, though.”

“Do tell.”

Gwen’s shoulders prickled. She hadn’t really stopped thinking about Dorian Black since she’d left the warehouse. “We’ll see how it pans out.”

“You mean you don’t want to talk about it.”

“Don’t take it personally, Vinnie. It’s Hewitt I don’t trust.”

“You still think you can scoop him?”

“Even if it kills me.”

“Or until Spellman kicks you out.” Vinnie gave a lopsided smile. “Keep your secrets. I’ll find them all out eventually.”

“I know you will, Vinnie.” She got up. “Listen, I’ve got some research to do. Let’s plan on lunch sometime soon.”

“You just let me know, honey.”

“See you then.” Gwen pushed the chair back in place and walked across the office to her desk. It was every bit as cluttered as any of the men’s, with only a small debris-free space around a framed photo of Eamon Murphy perched on the corner.

Tossing her pocketbook on a precarious stack of papers, Gwen sat on her hard chair and glanced at the headlines of the late edition that had been left on her desk. More on the Ross Kavanagh trial. Gwen shook her head. Dad had always said that Kavanagh was one of the few good cops in Manhattan. He’d been handed a raw deal for sure. There was no doubt in Gwen’s mind that he’d been framed for the murder of Councillor Hinckley’s mistress, almost certainly because he hadn’t agreed to play along with the corrupt administration.

Well, there was nothing she could do about that but pray for Kavanagh’s acquittal. She shoved the paper aside, settled deeper into her chair and opened the desk drawer. Inside were Eamon’s clippings, articles and notes carefully preserved by her father during his long years at the paper. She glanced around, pulled out a folder and opened it, holding it half-hidden in her lap.

Brown-edged newsprint crackled between Gwen’s fingers. The story had been buried in the back pages of the morning edition on June 5, 1924. A man had stumbled into a hospital, badly injured and mumbling about crazy people who drank blood. He’d died not long after. No one had bothered following up on the man’s bizarre claims.

The rest of the articles and clippings were in a similar vein. Stories about strange murders attributed to certain notorious gangs. Interviews with witnesses who’d seen or heard things no one in their right mind would believe. Paragraphs gleaned from every newspaper in New York, most of them meaningless to anyone who didn’t know their collector’s particular interest.

By the end, everyone at the Sentinel had known something was wrong with Eamon Murphy. He’d lost his edge. He was distracted, late with his assignments, always shuffling papers he wouldn’t let anyone else see. Spellman had called him in for a long talk, but nothing changed. Eamon Murphy was a man obsessed.

“If something happens to me,” he’d told Gwen, “don’t let an old man’s fixations end your career before it’s begun. Find your own stories, Gwennie. You’re as good a newsman as I’ll ever be. It’s what you’ve always wanted.”

He’d been right. She’d dreamed of becoming a reporter ever since her fourteenth birthday, when her father had brought her to the Sentinel offices. There hadn’t been a single woman reporter there at the time, but that didn’t worry Gwen. She’d gone to college, absorbing every available course in writing and journalism. She’d spent hours composing mock stories on her second-hand Remington, and applied for dozens of jobs.

No one had hired her. But Dad wasn’t about to let his daughter’s dream die. Two weeks after Eamon’s death, Spellman had offered Gwen a position as a cub reporter. Sure, her assignments had been the ones every man in the office considered unworthy of his attention, but she’d clung to the memory of her father’s encouragement, his unwavering belief in her abilities. She’d continued to study and observe. And when the three bodies had been found on the waterfront, every one of them drained of blood, she’d gone back to his files and read them all over again.

I’m sorry, Dad, but I can’t let this go. If it was important to you, it’s important to me. And I’m going to find the answers.

“I see you’re back from the beauty shop, Miss Murphy.”

Randolph Hewitt’s booming voice swept over Gwen like a foghorn.

She turned slowly in her chair and smiled sweetly. “Why, Mr. Hewitt. I see you’re back from the Dark Ages.”

Her chief rival’s mocking grin lost a little of its joviality. “Very funny, Murphy.” He shifted his bulk forward, hovering over her desk. “What have we here? More of your father’s crazy theories?”

Gwen shoved the clippings back in the drawer and slammed it shut. “You can rag me all you want, Hewitt, but leave my dad out of it.”

Hewitt held up both hands. “Pull in your claws, missy. I had the utmost respect for your father.”

“Sure you did—until you saw a way to stick a knife in his back.”

“Such intemperate accusations. I believe you’ve picked up some very bad habits, Miss Murphy.” He shook his head. “It would seem to be an unfortunate consequence of a woman attempting to compete in a man’s world.”

Gwen stood up, knocking a stack of papers onto the floor. “I don’t consider you competition, Hewitt.”

The reporter’s belly jiggled with his laughter. “I wouldn’t want to shatter your illusions.” His round face hardened. “Just remember what Spellman said. Keep your pretty hands off my story.”

He sauntered away, clearly satisfied with his part in the exchange. Gwen fumed silently. It didn’t do any good to lose her temper; Hewitt only viewed such lack of control as further evidence of a woman’s natural weaknesses. If she was going to prove him wrong, she would have to stay cool and use her head.

She picked up her father’s photo. I could really use your advice, Dad.

His face, darkened by the sun, smiled back at her. There’ll be times you’ll want to quit, he’d said. It isn’t an easy job, even for a man. But you’ll do just fine. And someday you’ll find a fellow who recognizes all the fine qualities you inherited from your mother. Just don’t settle for less, Gwennie.

Dad had guardedly approved of Mitch, who’d come to work at the Sentinel a year before Eamon’s death. He hadn’t objected when Mitch started pursuing his daughter.

Gwen set down the photograph. It had almost slipped her mind that Mitch was taking her to dinner tomorrow night. She felt more resignation than anticipation at the prospect. She didn’t feel any differently than she had months or weeks ago. Mitch was a good friend, but she wasn’t ready to marry a man she wasn’t sure she loved.

With a sigh, she began work on the inconsequential stories Spellman had assigned to her. She would do her best with them, as she always did. They wouldn’t have any excuse to discharge her. And when she could prove her father’s story, they would know she was truly worthy to compete in a man’s world.

Tomorrow she would go see Dorian Black again. The thought absurdly cheered her. Even if he couldn’t help her with the murders, her reporter’s instincts told her that his story might be well worth the telling.

And as for those “nasty spells” that apparently afflicted him every few weeks, she would just remember to watch her step.

THE BELT SLAPPED against Sammael’s back for the twentieth time. His flesh quivered in protests, but Sammael welcomed the pain. He raised the scourge again and brought it down with all his strength.

Forgive me, he prayed. Forgive me for my foolishness, my overweening pride. You have set me a test, and I have faltered. Let me earn Your favor once again.

He counted out another nine beats and let the belt fall, working the knots from his hands. His back was on fire…the holy fire, the promise of redemption that would come only with pain and blood. He got slowly to his feet and moved to the basin in his tiny cell, splashing water on his face. His back he would leave untouched. There would be neither scabs nor scars in the morning.

Tomorrow he would begin all over again.

He shrugged on his shirt, leaving the collar undone, and sat at his desk. The book lay open before him, ready for amending. But as he lifted his pen, someone rapped on the door.

“Come,” he said.

The guard who entered was young and strong, as were all the new recruits…unquestioningly loyal to Sammael and the synod. He inclined his head to his master and stood at attention.

“We have a new report on the girl,” the younger man said. “She has been seen at the waterfront with one of Raoul’s former enforcers.”

“Indeed?” Sammael leaned back in his chair. “And which one would that be?”

“Dorian Black, my liege.”

“Ah, yes. I know of him. How did he and Miss Murphy come to be acquainted?”

“Our informers told us that he saved her from drowning.”

“How did this event occur?”

“She was assaulted. A number of young men were seen fleeing the pier.”

Sammael shook his head. “The Lord has said that humans must inherit the earth, no matter how unworthy they may seem to us.” He picked up his pen and rolled it between his fingers. “My impression of the enforcer was that he would not become involved with any human.”

“He took her to his kennel. She left unharmed.”

“He did not Convert her?”

“There was not enough time, and it was still daylight when she left.”

“Ah.” Sammael waved his hand. “As long as Black remains isolated, he is of no interest to us. But should he see the girl again…”

“Understood, my liege.”

“What of Miss Murphy’s investigation?”

“It appears not to be progressing,” the guard said. “We believe she was to meet someone at the waterfront, but the individual failed to appear.”

Sammael set down his pen. “She may indeed remain as ineffectual as her father, but perhaps it is time we revisit her apartment. It is always possible that something was missed the first time. And take every precaution. Give her no reason for suspicion.”

“As you say, my liege.” The guard bowed again and withdrew, closing the door quietly behind him.

Sammael leaned over the book, his head beginning to throb. Miss Murphy was only a minor concern at present, but she and Hewitt would be entirely harmless if not for Sammael’s own error in leaving the bodies in a state that would raise so many questions. And it was not his first mistake; he had failed to keep the original book safe, and now it was out of his hands. Aadon was dead, but the book remained lost. Until it was recovered, there was grave danger that Pax’s humans and civilians would be led astray.

They must not doubt. They must never doubt.

Fragile paper sighed as Sammael smoothed the pages before him. Over half of Micah’s text was already crossed out, replaced by the words Sammael’s visions had given him. A few more weeks and his work would be complete.

“’And those who have taken the blood of man shall die,’” he wrote carefully above Micah’s blackened lines. “’So it is written. So it shall be done.’”




CHAPTER THREE


DORIAN FELT HER EVEN before he moved to the door of the warehouse.

Gwen Murphy strode across the boardwalk, late afternoon sunlight striking sparks off her curly red hair. Over one arm she carried a basket overflowing with white linen. Her fair face was set with determination, as if she was preparing herself for a cool reception.

If Dorian had possessed any sense at all, he would have found a way to disappear. But dusk was several hours away, and he was not in the habit of retreating in the face of the enemy.

For she was the enemy, and he dared not let himself forget it.

He stepped back into the darkness to wait.

“Mr. Black?” Gwen’s heels tapped on the warehouse floor as she made her way toward Dorian’s corner. “Are you there?”

“Miss Murphy,” he said.

She jumped a little, startled by his sudden appearance. “Mr. Black. Dorian.” Her gaze met his, curious and briefly wary. Dorian observed that her lashes were a shade darker than her hair, perfectly framing her green eyes.

The treachery of his thoughts nearly undid him. He looked away from her, counting off all the arguments he had mustered yesterday morning.

They were nearly useless. Today he found himself entranced all over again, struggling against an overwhelming desire to touch her. To stroke her fiery hair. To feel the warmth of her full, expressive lips…

“I’ve brought a picnic,” Gwen said, shattering the spell. “It’s a little late for lunch, but—”

“You shouldn’t have come.”

“Why am I not surprised to hear you say that?” She smiled, the uneasy curve of her mouth betraying what he already realized was uncharacteristic self-consciousness. “Still, I’m here. And I’m not leaving until you eat some of this food.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“That I don’t believe. Walter says you hardly eat enough to keep a bird alive.”

“Yet here I am.”

She set down the basket and folded her arms across her chest. “Oh, how I adore a man of few words.” She held his stare. “You tried to scare me off yesterday, and it didn’t work. Nothing’s changed.”

He hardened his expression, beginning to feel the tightening in his body that warned of the madness to come. “You aren’t welcome here, Miss Murphy.”

“That’s never stopped me.” She hesitated, perhaps remembering how he had turned on her the day before, and then squared her shoulders. “You don’t want charity. I understand that. But it’s not just disinterested kindness on my part. I still have a hunch that you know more about those murders than you let on.”

“You’re mistaken.”

“Maybe. Let’s discuss it over a nice bottle of wine.” She bent over the basket and withdrew a bottle the color of blood, displaying it for his inspection. “I’m sure we can find a patch of ground outside to lay out our feast.”

Dorian withdrew a step, his gaze moving to the open warehouse door. “I prefer to remain here.”

She released an explosive breath. “No wonder you’re so pale, hiding here in the dark. Sunlight will do you good.” She reached for his arm. “Come on.”

Her fingers grazed his sleeve. He raised his hand to strike out. The brave expression in her eyes stopped him cold.

It would be so easy to hurt her. So easy to sink his teeth into the soft flesh of her neck, taste the sweetness of her blood.

He staggered, his feet slipping out from underneath him. Gwen seized his arm and held on.

“That’s it,” she snapped. “If you won’t come outside, we’ll eat right here.” With surprising strength, she turned him about and half dragged him behind the crates that formed the walls of his room. Once he was safely seated on the floor, she went back for the basket. She set it down in front of him and sat beside him.

The smell of fresh bread, pungent cheese and savory meat rose from the basket as Gwen spread the white linen cloth on the floor and laid out the meal. Dorian’s stomach churned, rebelling against its enforced deprivation. No vampire could survive long without blood, no matter what other forms of nourishment he might take. But since the blood enabled strigoi to digest human food, most ate on a regular basis.

“Walter,” he said hoarsely. “He needs this more than I do.”

“There’s plenty for both of you.” She sliced off a generous chunk of the bread, constructed a sandwich out of roast beef and thinly sliced cheese, and thrust it at Dorian. “Eat.”

Their fingers touched as he accepted the sandwich. He almost dropped it. Gwen pressed it into his hand. Once again their eyes met, and Dorian saw the sympathy and compassion she tried to conceal.

“It’s all right,” she said.

There was no more fighting the demands of his body. He took a bite, closing his eyes as the bread melted on his tongue. In seconds the sandwich was gone and Gwen was making another. While he ate, she used a corkscrew to open the wine and filled the two glasses that had been tucked in the bottom of the basket.

“It’s not the best,” she said, “but I hope you won’t find it too disappointing.”

Dorian took a glass, careful this time not to touch her, and stared into the dark red liquid. “What makes you think I would know the difference between good wine and poor?”

“You speak like an educated man.”

“That hardly proves anything.”

She looked at him over the rim of her glass. “Where did you attend school?”

The wine turned sour in his mouth. He swallowed it with difficulty.

“My past isn’t worthy of your interest, Miss Murphy.”

“Let me be the judge of that.” She wrapped up the remaining cheese and meat, tucking it back in the basket. “You attended college. You worked in a position that required both skill and intelligence.”

A sense of fatalism washed over Dorian. Gwen Murphy wouldn’t give up. He couldn’t force her to leave without resorting to violence, and he was already too close to losing all control.

“I didn’t attend college,” he said, setting down his glass. “I was born in Hell’s Kitchen. I went to public school until I was ten. Then I went to work in a factory. There wasn’t any time or money for higher education.”

Gwen gazed at him, a sandwich halfway to her mouth. “Well,” she said at last, “that’s definitely one of the longest speeches you’ve made since we met.”

“I trust it assuages your curiosity.”

“Not really. It doesn’t explain why a kid from Hell’s Kitchen uses words like ‘assuage’ in casual conversation.”

Dorian found himself studying the delicate arch of her brows and the curve of her forehead. “It is possible to learn without formal instruction. There are such things as public libraries, Miss Murphy.”

“Is that how you did it? You’re self-taught?”

He shrugged, carefully looking away from her face. She finished her sandwich, brushed off her skirt and rose. “Are those books I see there?” Without waiting for his answer, she stepped over him and bent to pick up one of the volumes he’d arranged on a plank against the wall.

“Frankenstein,” she said, cradling the battered volume. “You enjoy the classics, Mr. Black?”

“Occasionally.”

“It’s a sad story. Both the creator and the created are ultimately destroyed.”

“Is that so surprising, Miss Murphy, when the creator chose to set himself up as a god?”

She smiled at him. “So you’re a philosopher as well as an autodidact.”

“You seem to share my predilection for long words, Miss Murphy.”

“Writing for a newspaper doesn’t allow me to use them very often. I used to read the dictionary when I was a kid.”

Dorian felt a jolt of surprise, remembering the discarded dictionary, its pages moldy and torn, that he’d found left in a rubbish heap outside his family’s tenement. He’d made himself learn at least two new words every day, practicing their pronunciation with care. His father had laughed at him.

Won’t do you no good, boy. You’ll never amount to anything. Not as long as you live…

Dorian’s father had had no idea just how long that would be.

“What else do we have here?” Gwen said, sliding the book back in place and picking up another. “Dante’s Inferno. You don’t go in for light reading, do you?”

“I’m devastated that you disapprove.”

“No. It’s not that.” She tapped the book’s spine against her chin. “Do you believe in eternal punishment, Mr. Black?”

“Do you, Miss Murphy?”

She touched the cross hanging from a silver chain around her neck. “I believe in the possibility of redemption.”

The tightness Dorian had felt earlier returned, squeezing his heart beneath his ribs. “Some souls cannot be redeemed.”

“Are you speaking of yourself?” Her eyes were penetrating, ruthless in their understanding. “What happened, Dorian? Why do you think you deserve to suffer?”

He got to his feet, his mouth almost too dry for speech. “You assume too much.”

“I can see that you’re punishing yourself by living in this place, refusing human company, hardly eating. Is caring for Walter the only thing that keeps you alive?”

Dorian closed his eyes. He could feel it coming. Total darkness, a time when most strigoi walked freely and celebrated their power.

For him, it was a kind of death. A temporary death that never quite took him but let him survive to despise himself yet another day.

Oh, yes. He believed in hell.

“It can’t be as bad as you think,” she said.

Suddenly she was beside him, her warmth caressing his cold skin, her breath soft in his ears. “You found your way out of Hell’s Kitchen. You made something of yourself, didn’t you? But you took a wrong turn somewhere. And now you don’t think you can get back again.”

It took all his self-discipline to keep from responding to the thrum of the blood in her veins, the fragrance of her body that told him she was ripe for the taking.

“Did it never occur to you,” he said softly, “that I am not quite sane?”

“You mean because of what happened yesterday?”

He leaned away from her. “Yes.”

“If you’d really wanted to hurt me, you’ve had plenty of chances to do it.” Her implacable voice battered him like a hail of bullets. “Whatever you may have done, whatever you experienced, you want to make it right. But first you have to go back out into the world and face both it and yourself.”

The muscles in Dorian’s body slackened. Somehow he kept his feet. “Where did you acquire such faith in your fellow man?” he whispered.

“From my dad. He saw a lot of horrible things in his days as a newsman, but he never lost his belief in the essential goodness of humanity.”

Humanity. But I am not human. I can never be again.

With exaggerated gentleness, he took the book from Gwen’s hands. “Do you make a habit of attempting to save every vagrant you meet?”

“I’m not that good.” She picked up the basket. “Shall we take this to Walter?”

Dorian was greatly relieved by the change of subject. “He wasn’t feeling well earlier this afternoon. If you would leave the basket with me…”

“Of course. Is there anything I can do?”

“No. An old man is prone to ailments. He will recover.”

The warmth in her eyes increased. “Do you make a habit of attempting to save every vagrant you meet? Most people wouldn’t bother with a homeless old man.”

“Why do you bother with me?”

His question caught her at a rare loss for words. She tugged at the hem of her jacket. “Is it too shocking to say that I like you?”

“You have no reason to like me.”

“Do I have to have one?”

“I fear for your judgment, Miss Murphy.”

“Let me worry about that.” She pushed russet curls away from her forehead. “I’d like to stay, but I have an appointment this evening. I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon with some clothes and a few other things you might be able to use.”

All the cold-bloodedness that had served Dorian so well in his work for Raoul, all the dispassion he had deliberately fostered within himself, none of it was of any use now. He might as well have returned to his childhood, weeping in a corner because his mother was dead and his father couldn’t be bothered to comfort his own children.

He had never felt so unutterably weary.

“I ask you once more to stay away,” he said.

“I never give up on something once I’ve started,” she said, “and I still haven’t cut your hair. Unless you’re afraid you’ll lose all your strength, like Samson in the old story?”

He almost smiled. “I’m in no danger of such a fate, Miss Murphy.”

“It’s about time you called me Gwen, don’t you think?” She held out her hand. When he didn’t take it, she grabbed his and squeezed it firmly. “Gwen.”

The feel of her skin had an instant effect on his body. He grew hard, and it seemed as if all the blood in his veins rushed to his cock.

She released him, taking a step back as she did so. A slight shiver ran through her.

“Good,” she said, a little too sharply. “It’s a date, then.” She turned away, half tripping in her haste. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Dorian let her go. When she had left the warehouse and he could no longer hear the clack of her heels outside, he sat down heavily and dropped his head between his shoulders.

Yesterday his mind had been full of the resolve to ignore his attraction to Gwen Murphy. Of course he’d made the mistake of allowing himself to hope she wouldn’t return and force him to take decisive action. But she had come, and he had failed miserably at keeping her at a safe distance. He admired—yes, liked her—more than ever before.

Far worse, he’d only sunk more deeply into the maelstrom of his own hunger. And the irony of it was that he had never developed a resistance to such weakness, because he had never before suffered the particular illness that caused it.

One of the first things any newly Converted strigoi learned was that most vampires were unrepentant sensualists, reborn to the lust for pleasure no matter what they had been in human life. Raoul had certainly been a prime example of the principle, with his love of luxury, his grandiose manner and his extensive harem of protégés, both male and female.

Dorian had been different. When he’d first been Converted, he’d had no choice but to focus on duty, since he’d virtually become Raoul’s property. Yet even when he had proved his value and loyalty many times over, earning privileges generally granted only to trusted lieutenants and vassals, he had preferred work to pleasure. His needs were few, his desires nearly non-existent. That hadn’t been altered even when he’d recognized his genuine admiration for Allegra Chase and accepted the consequences.

To say he was no longer the man he had been was a gross understatement. His new need for physical closeness, for the intimate touch of flesh on flesh, for a woman’s body, seemed the least significant change of all. But it was enough. Enough to ruin the very person who had changed that part of him irrevocably.

Perhaps Gwen might have escaped the perils of his interest if she were the type of modern young woman who saw no shame in lying with a man simply because she desired it. The fact that she’d retreated so hastily after she’d taken his hand told him that she’d finally seen him as a man, not merely an object of charity or a lunatic deserving of her pity. And he had no doubt that she was fully capable of surrendering to the instincts that brought male and female together, regardless of species.

If Gwen could simply acknowledge such instincts and give them full control, she might disarm his need with a single act of sex. But Gwen, for all her brash confidence, would never agree to a casual liaison with him or any other male. There was a hidden core of conventionality in her that he could sense as strongly as he sensed the rhythm of her pulse and the beat of her heart. She might be unstinting in her willingness to help those less fortunate, but there was a part of herself that she would always hold back. Especially in matters of romantic intimacy.

Romance and love were concepts as alien to Dorian as the fear of death. And though Gwen might see him as a man, “liking” was a very long way from the ominous human emotion that could bring about her downfall. Even if she allowed herself to feel more for him than she did, more than what mortals called “friendship,” she would never be able to understand what he had been, how he had lived, what he’d done. She would never know what had shaped his life, what drove him so near madness, why he couldn’t be trusted.

Even her courage wasn’t enough to face the truth.

Dorian covered his face with his hands. Tomorrow came the madness, and he couldn’t be sure that he would recover. Today he was rational enough to separate his lust for Gwen’s body from his desire for her blood. But instinct, among strigoi as among men, could be more powerful than reason. Physical wanting, unchecked by clan law or the command of a liege, could become the drive to procreate. And there was only one way that vampires could produce more of their own.

Disgusted by his weakness, Dorian coldly considered his options. If he survived tomorrow night’s ordeal, he would plan an escape. He knew of a few places in Hell’s Kitchen where he and Walter might find temporary shelter until he could think of something better. Places where Gwen wouldn’t find him.

Soon enough, she would forget him. And he would remember her as just another human who had passed in and out of his life, as insubstantial as a ghost.

Dorian picked up the basket and went to find Walter.

LORD BYRON’S, it was said, had the best steaks in Manhattan. It had always been a fashionable watering hole for the elite, overpriced and overdecorated, with crystal chandeliers and ornate mirrored walls that echoed an earlier age. Women in Chanel gowns and ropes of pearls, ferried in black limousines, arrived on the arms of men in top hats and tuxedos. A small orchestra played discreet melodies as Wall Street brokers discussed their latest stock purchases and young couples danced cheek to cheek.

To an outside observer, Lord Byron’s looked positively staid. But like any club or restaurant worth its salt, it had a private room in the back that catered to those who wanted a little alcohol and excitement with their meals. And like any good reporter, Mitch knew the right password to get in.

He spoke briefly with the maître d’ and led Gwen to a table near the band. They were playing a recently popular tune, a little ditty about someone who done somebody wrong, and several couples were on the dance floor kicking up their heels.

Gwen and Mitch had barely sat down when a waiter brought a cooler holding a bottle of wine. He displayed the label to Mitch, who nodded his approval.

“I didn’t know you could afford Chateau D’Or,” Gwen said, shaking out her napkin with a snap.

Mitch gave her an exasperated look. “Trust you to say something so damnably prosaic at a time like this,” he said.

“A time like what?” She sipped at her ice water, casting Mitch a glance of childlike innocence. “Aren’t we here to celebrate your latest triumph?”

The blare of trumpets briefly drowned out Mitch’s reply, but his handsome face was eloquent.

“…should know me better than that,” he said. “I haven’t forgotten.”

Gwen resisted the urge to put off the forthcoming conversation with more banter, but she could see that Mitch wouldn’t play along. He’d decided on formality tonight, which was a very bad sign.

“Okay,” she said with a faint sigh. “I’m sorry, Mitch. I’ll try to be good.”

He relaxed a little, allowing the waiter to decant the wine. He held the glass under his nose, breathed in, and then tasted the Merlot with appreciation. After a moment he gave the waiter an approving nod, and the man filled Gwen’s glass.

The first thing Gwen thought as she drank was that the wine really didn’t taste any better than the cheap stuff she’d shared with Dorian a few hours earlier. She’d enjoyed that impromptu picnic more than she had her last few meals in Manhattan’s finest restaurants, enjoyed sparring with a man who was as unpredictable and volatile as a summer storm…

Don’t think of him. For God’s sake, keep your mind on your—

“Gwen?”

She came back to herself and smiled. “Sorry, Mitch. Woolgathering.”

“Still scheming about Hewitt’s story?”

“Hewitt’s story,” she said with a snort. “It was my dad’s long before it was his.”

“Your father, good as he was, had some crazy ideas. Spellman never would have let him pursue them even if he’d—” He broke off and coughed behind his hand.

“Even if he’d lived,” Gwen completed. “I know. But the murders mesh too well with his theories, Mitch.”

“A secret cult of blood-drinkers?” Mitch said, careful to keep the overt mockery out of his voice. “You know that’s hardly likely, Gwen, no matter how much Eamon believed.”

“You make it sound ridiculous,” she said, bristling, “but I’m not letting it go until I can prove he was wrong—or right.”

Mitch rubbed at the faint lines between his brows. “I just wish you’d consider the consequences,” he said. “Hewitt could make real trouble for you, Gwen. He’s never believed women belong on a newspaper.”

“It’s not as if it’s unknown. There are plenty of feature writers—”

“I thought you wanted to work in the city room, covering the big stories?”

“I won’t get there if I don’t take a few chances.”

Mitch’s mouth set in a mulish look that was all too familiar. “There are some things a woman just shouldn’t do.”

Gwen controlled her urge to shoot up out of her chair and answered with deliberate calm. “Is that really what you think, Mitch?”

“You know I’d support anything you chose to do.”

“Within limits.”

“Yes.” He met her gaze. “I want to take care of you, Gwen. Even if it means protecting you from yourself.”

“But that’s exactly the trouble. I don’t want—”

The waiter reappeared, his face molded into a professionally bland smile. “Are monsieur and madame ready to order?” he inquired with a bow.

“Two filets mignon, rare,” Mitch said, before Gwen had a chance to express a preference. She pressed her lips together and stared down at the table. The band struck up a slow, sensuous jazz melody, and Mitch rose from his chair.

“Shall we dance?” he asked, offering his hand.

The last thing Gwen wanted was a scene. She took his hand and stepped with him onto the dance floor. He pulled her close.

“I’ve been waiting for this all night,” he said, his breath tickling her ear. “We’ve hardly seen each other the past few weeks.”

“That isn’t exactly my fault,” she said.

His voice took on a real note of apology. “I didn’t mean to neglect you. This story is taking all my time and attention. But you haven’t exactly been around when I’m free, Gwen.”

“Am I supposed to wait until you find it convenient to bestow your attention?”

He pulled back a little, frowning. “You sound peevish, Gwen. It isn’t attractive in you.”

“I wonder why you put up with me at all.”

Suddenly he stopped. He cupped her face in his hands and looked into her eyes.

“I put up with you because you’re the brightest and most interesting woman I know, not to mention gorgeous.”

Gwen said nothing. Mitch really believed that he would support her in any career she chose—as long as he got to decide how much time and effort she spent at it. As long as he got to make the rules.

Mitch began dancing again, his lips against her hair. “Ah, Guinevere,” he said. “When are we going to end this game?”

This was it. The conversation she’d been dreading. The one they’d had a dozen times before. Only this time she wasn’t sure she could worm her way out.

“You know what I want,” he whispered. “We were meant to be together, Gwen. You know it as well as I do.”

“Mitch…”

“You’re fighting it just because you think you want independence. You don’t. No woman really does.”

It was all Gwen could do not to jerk out of his arms. “It must have been a dangerous journey,” she said with forced lightness.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your voyage into the darkest recesses of a woman’s mind.”

He laughed and ran his hands along the russet silk draped over her hip. “It’s not as difficult as all that, Gwen. Some men think women are mysterious. I know better. In many ways, they’re far simpler than men.”

“Thanks,” Gwen murmured.

“That’s not meant as an insult.” He nuzzled her cheek. “Let’s put this indecision behind us and set a date.”

Tension made a fist in Gwen’s chest. “I’d like a little more wine first, if you don’t mind.”

“By all means, if it’ll make you more cooperative.” He ushered her back to the table and held the chair out for her. Gwen tried not to gulp her drink and sought desperately for a way to distract Mitch.

You won’t be able to do it forever, she told herself. You’re so proud of your honesty. You’ll have to be honest with him.

And what exactly did that mean? She was very fond of Mitch. Most of the time he was reasonable. He was usually an ally at the Sentinel. She found him attractive, often witty, generally decent…though he could show a surprisingly ruthless side when he was pursuing a story.

For all that, she was never quite sure she really knew him. Most women would have given their eyeteeth just to have him look at them, but Gwen couldn’t escape the feeling that rushing into marriage with Mitch Hogan would be the worst mistake of her life.

If I loved him, I wouldn’t have so much doubt. But she’d never quite been able to bring herself to say the words, even in her own heart.

Maybe I can’t love anyone. Maybe it’s just not in me.

Unwillingly, she found her thoughts flashing back to the warehouse and to a cool, unreadable face that had none of Mitch’s charm. Dorian and Mitch couldn’t be more different. Mitch was serious now, but he was capable of playfulness when he was in the right mood. Dorian was about as lighthearted as an undertaker.

But something strange had happened when she’d taken Dorian’s hand just before she’d left the warehouse. The literary cliché was very apt: a bolt of electricity had shot right through her, and she’d known that Dorian Black was far more dangerous than she’d let herself believe. Oh, not because he would hurt her. What she’d glimpsed behind his eyes had heated her like three gins drunk straight.

And she couldn’t seem to forget the feeling of his hand on hers.

“Thinking about that date?” Mitch said.

She smiled, covering her confusion. “I promise I’ll consider it.”

“Not too long.” He reached across the table to take her hand. “I want you, Gwen. In every way.”

His hand was warm and firm, but his touch had almost no effect on her. Maybe it would have been enough if she’d felt a spark of desire when he held her. It just wasn’t there.

“Let’s dance,” she said.

They did. Mitch almost crushed her in his embrace, as if he had begun to sense the depth of her doubts. His arms felt like a cage. She pretended not to care.

And did her best not to think of Dorian Black.

SOMETHING WAS WRONG.

Mitch knew Gwen…her walk, her speech, every expression and every mood. She was as easy to read as a headline and an utter failure at deception. He knew by the ever-so-slight stiffness in her body that she was not entirely there with him on the dance floor.

Someone else was present. And he had no idea who that someone could be.

When dinner ended, he was the one to suggest that they both needed a good night’s sleep. Gwen didn’t argue. She looked positively relieved, and her slender body relaxed as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

Mitch walked her to the curb, tipped the valet, and drove Gwen home. She hardly spoke. Her mind was on that other presence, and Mitch could barely control his anger. If he challenged her now, she would only retreat with a quip and an even deeper silence. She was more forthright than most women, but she was fully capable of fighting dirty.

Gwen thanked him and gave him a peck on the cheek when he dropped her at her apartment building. He grabbed her and kissed her before she could escape. It took several seconds before her lips softened under his, and even then he could feel her resistance. Most men would hardly have noticed. Mitch had his worst assumptions confirmed.

He watched her cross the sidewalk and slip through the door into the lobby. The seductive sway of her hips was entirely unconscious, but it only aroused his anger the more. Any man could enjoy her figure, poured into that scarlet satin gown like a glass of wine waiting to be sipped. Any man could imagine himself in her bed, savoring that lovely body.

So far no one, not even Mitch, had made it that far. Mitch wasn’t about to let another fellow poach on his territory. He’d been more than patient with Gwen’s starts and peculiar theories. She needed discipline and guidance from a man who cared about her…a man who wouldn’t be moved by her foolish ideas.

Once she was his wife, she wouldn’t need to rely on her career for fulfillment.

You don’t know what’s good for you, Guinevere, he thought. But I’ll teach you. And you’ll learn to enjoy the lesson.




CHAPTER FOUR


BY THREE O’CLOCK in the afternoon, Dorian knew Walter couldn’t wait any longer. His body was wracked with fever, and his pulse beat frantically beneath his nearly translucent skin. He would no longer drink the water Dorian offered; his lips were like parchment.

Only a human physician could care for him now.

Dorian threw on his long coat, put on his hat and wrapped a scarf around his neck and lower face, grateful that the cooler weather made the garments less conspicuous. He bundled Walter up in his cleanest blankets and lifted the old man in his arms. Walter was all bone and sinew; he weighed little more than a child.

The nearest hospital was a dozen blocks away. Dorian didn’t have enough money for a taxi, but he could move very fast when it became necessary.

Longshoremen and laborers turned to stare as he ran past. He dodged from the path of a cumbersome platform truck, whose driver cursed him roundly. He might never have noticed Gwen if not for the sudden, powerful awareness that sliced through his preoccupation.

“Dorian!”

He slowed, debating whether or not to ignore her. Gwen was carrying bundles stacked up to her chin, her face a pale blur above them. She was a distraction he could ill afford, and the dark of the moon was only hours away. But she had money that could pay for a taxi, and there was no doubt in Dorian’s mind that she would want to help Walter as much as he did.

Gwen ran up to him as he came to a stop. “What’s wrong?” she demanded, peering into Walter’s face. “Is he sick?”

“Yes.” Dorian found himself all too inclined to gaze at Gwen like any infatuated human. It was a dangerous lapse under the circumstances. “He needs the services of a doctor. Will you summon a taxi?”

“Of course!” Abandoning her packages, she paced Dorian as he broke into a jog. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. He’s fragile, like most—” He caught himself. “Old men are prone to sickness, are they not?”

“You did say…something about that.” Her breath came in short bursts, but she didn’t falter. “Go on. I’ll follow.”

They ran between offices and warehouses until they reached South Street. No cabs appeared, so they continued west to Cherry. Gwen flagged a taxi down with a whistle of impressive volume. She scooted into the backseat and cradled Walter’s head and shoulders as Dorian gently pushed the old man in beside her.

“The hospital, as fast as you can make it,” Gwen said. The cabbie complied, peeling away from the curb on screeching tires.

Gwen settled back in the seat, careful to keep from moving Walter more than necessary. She laid her hand on his forehead.

“He’s burning up,” she said. “You should have brought him sooner.”

Dorian shuddered, struggling to ignore the allure of Gwen’s scent. “I wasn’t sure the hospital would take a charity case.”

“You could have called me at any time. I would have covered the expenses.”

“I wasn’t aware that you were wealthy, Miss Murphy.”

“Gwen, remember?” Her gaze swept from his hat to his collar. “What’s with the coat? I can hardly see your face.”

He hesitated, weighed the risk, then carefully unwound the muffler. The sunlight was filtered by the taxi’s windows, but he still felt a slight burning on his cheeks, nose and lips.

“My skin,” he said, “is somewhat sensitive to sunlight.”

“Oh? That must be very inconvenient.”

Dorian shrugged. Gwen fell silent, though a slight frown lingered between her brows. She returned her attention to Walter, dabbing the sweat from his forehead with her handkerchief.

It was no more than ten minutes before the cabbie pulled up in front of the hospital. He jumped out and opened the door for Gwen, who waited until Dorian had a good grip on Walter. She rushed ahead of Dorian and held open the doors. In a surprisingly short time Walter was in the care of white-clad nurses, while Gwen consulted with a young man Dorian presumed to be the doctor.

“They have a bed all ready for him,” she told Dorian. “I’m going to sit with him. Will you stay?”

The look in her eyes told Dorian that she fully expected him to answer in the affirmative. He didn’t dare risk it. Soon he would feel only hunger and black rage, and anyone within reach would be in terrible danger.

“No,” he said. “I trust that the doctors will be far more effective than I could ever be.”

“He relies on you—”

“I’ll return tomorrow.” He turned to go.

“Wait.” Gwen walked up behind him and placed her hand on his arm. “You don’t like doctors, do you?”

He didn’t answer, glad to let her believe that such a simple fear was the reason for his departure. “I…thank you for your offer to stay with Walter.”

“It’s no trouble at all.” She tightened her fingers. “I brought you some things, but I dropped them at the wharf. I’ll bring more tomorrow.”

“It isn’t necessary.” He swallowed, hearing the thrum of her blood, smelling her ripeness.

“Let’s not argue again. Here.” She pressed several bills into his hand. “Taxi fare, and get yourself something to eat.”

He couldn’t risk returning the money and touching her skin. “Very well. Good afternoon, Gwen.”

This time she didn’t follow. Dorian felt his way to the door. His throat swelled with the need for fresh blood. His head pounded, and his legs would barely carry him to the street.

Only desperation made him call a taxi rather than walk back to the waterfront. The sun was sinking when he reached the warehouse. His breath was harsh in his chest, and his pulse throbbed madly at his temples.

His only hope was to hide himself in the warehouse, to fight the hunger and violence. When the night was over he could seek the nourishment he needed, but not before. Not while there was any risk that he might kill.

The warehouse door was nearly broken off its hinges. He swung it closed, knowing it wouldn’t keep him in if he chose to leave. The effect was purely psychological, and he needed every advantage he could find.

The sounds of human activity faded. He turned toward his corner, each step awkward with excess energy. His vision sharpened. His skin felt every stray shift of the air around him.

Half stumbling, he lurched past the crates and into his improvised shelter. An instant afterward, he knew he wasn’t alone.

“Hello, Dorian.”

Javier stepped away from the wall, the backs of his dark eyes reflecting red. He wore a perfectly tailored black suit, and his handsome face was fixed in an unpleasant smile.

Dorian closed his eyes. He would not find any peace this night.

“Javier,” he said, his voice hardly a croak. “How did you find me?”

The enforcer drew a silver case from an inner pocket and tapped out a cigarette. “It took a little doing,” he said, “but I never doubted that you’d return to the city.”

Dorian felt behind him and sank down onto a low crate. “You’ve made a mistake.”

“Yeah. I’ll bet I’m the last man you want to see.” Javier pushed the cigarette between his lips. “Did you really think you’d get away with it?”

Dorian’s skin began to burn. “You’d better get out of here, Javier.”

“Why?” The other man produced a lighter and lit his cigarette. “You think I’m letting you off?” He blew smoke toward Dorian and took another drag. “You betrayed me. You were supposed to shoot Chase. You bungled it. And when I tried to do your job…”

He didn’t have to finish the sentence. Dorian remembered every moment of that night three months ago…the night he’d been ordered to assassinate Allegra Chase, the only vampire who’d had the nerve and determination to stand against Raoul’s tyrannical rule of the clan. The very same night he’d realized that Raoul’s ongoing existence would ultimately destroy the few truly good people he had ever known.

Javier, who had been his partner for two years, had had no compunctions about obeying Raoul and killing Allegra. He’d picked up the rifle when Dorian dropped it and would have put a bullet through Allegra’s brain if Dorian hadn’t taken him down first. But Dorian had left Javier alive. And Javier had seen him with the gun in his hand seconds after Raoul had fallen.

“After all Raoul did for you,” Javier said, blowing another cloud of smoke, “you killed him. Left the clan without a leader.” He threw the half-finished cigarette on the floor. “It’s because of you that the strigoi are at war. And all for a woman.”

The fire that licked under Dorian’s flesh worked its way up, slowly penetrating his brain. “She—others like her—will be the salvation of our kind.”

Javier laughed. “Don’t kid me. You went soft, Dorian.” He stepped on the discarded cigarette and ground it into powder. “How did it happen? You were good at your work until that bitch Allegra showed up.”

Oh, yes. He had been good. Good enough that his mere appearance struck fear into any poor breeder or vampire who fell afoul of Raoul Boucher.

And he’d been loyal. Unquestioningly so. But he had never taken pleasure in violence, not like Javier. His own quiet manner had played well against his partner’s viciousness. Threats were usually enough to keep rebellious underlings in line. He and Javier had served Raoul efficiently and well.

Until they’d been sent after Allegra Chase. And Dorian had learned he still had emotions that could be touched by courage and a commitment to ideals he had left behind half a century before.

“Weak,” Javier said. “I saw it from the beginning. You always held back.”

Dorian’s lungs expanded, sucking in air to feed the transformation that would claim him at any moment. “Get out,” he whispered. “Get out if you want to live.”

“You think you could kill me?” Javier glanced around the room, his mouth curled in contempt. “You don’t have it in you. Look at this place. You’ve fallen too far, Dorian. You might as well be human.” He began to take off his coat. “You know, in a way I owe you. When the clan fell, I had a chance to make a new name with the factions. I’m a full vassal now, one of Kyril’s right-hand men. And when Kyril wins this war…” He folded his coat and laid it over a stack of crates. “There’s no telling how far I’ll go.”

The animal crouching inside Dorian’s head scratched and clawed, fighting to get out. “So this is…all for revenge,” he said.

“You’re getting off easy. If anyone else knew you’d shot Raoul, they’d tear you to pieces. I’ll be quick, for old times’ sake.” He flexed his hands. “Stand up.”

Dorian rose. His muscles seemed to stretch his skin, expanding and swelling to monstrous size. Javier didn’t see. It was all illusion.

Except for the desire to kill.

He lifted his hands, making one last attempt to send Javier away. It was a wasted effort. Javier charged, slamming Dorian into the wall.

Everything that followed was a blur of motion and rage. Dorian’s fists worked like pistons. Bones snapped. He heard the grunts and groans of his opponent, felt flesh give way, tearing like paper.

And then he tasted blood. Not the sustaining blood of humans, but the bitter stuff that flowed in strigoi veins. The liquid filled his mouth. He spat it out, shoving at the body hanging from his arms.

All movement stopped. The creature who had been Dorian Black stalked from the room, leaving his enemy behind him. He smashed open the warehouse door and stalked the night, searching. The one he wanted was not here, but a fragment of memory emerged from the distant, rational part of his mind.

He moved from shadow to shadow, avoiding the circles of light cast by the street lamps. Cars glided by, the noise of their engines muffled to his ears. Breeders walked the streets, oblivious, easy victims for his hunger. They instinctively shrank away as he passed by.

Still he continued on, the need growing to a wrenching pain in his belly. A single light of reason flickered in his brain, leading him to the place where he would find her.

The building he sought was quiet in the cold hours past midnight. A single ambulance was parked in the hospital drive, and a white-coated doctor leaned against the wall, blowing puffs of cigarette smoke into the frigid air.

Dorian made his way toward the door. A pair of chattering females emerged just as he approached. He turned, hiding his face. He could have snapped their necks with a single blow, but his beast’s cunning told him that to do so would expose him too soon.

The space inside the doors was brightly lit, hurting his eyes. He kept his head low. Humans spoke in quiet tones, but to him their voices were like shouts. He hurried past to a desk where another female in a starched uniform sat tapping at a typewriter, her face expressionless, her blood rushing steadily under her skin.

“May I help you?” she asked. He didn’t answer. His mouth refused to form the words. He stared into her eyes until she looked away and then strode past the desk into the corridor.

No one stopped him. The doors were all alike, but his steps didn’t falter. He knew where she was hiding.

He paused at the end of the corridor. His tongue was swollen with thirst, his eyes like hot coals in his skull. He put his hand on the last door. It swung open soundlessly.

She sat in a chair by the bed, her hands folded in her lap, her chin lolling on her chest. The man in the bed snored softly. Neither one heard him enter the room. He moved to the side of the bed and looked down into the old man’s face. That one was unimportant. He turned to stare at the woman. Hunger and desire gave the room a cast of black and red.

He walked around her chair and stood behind her. He would strike so swiftly that she would never wake before he was finished.

But he hesitated, frozen by something inside him that he couldn’t name. His hands hovered over her shoulders. He lowered his head, lips drawn back from his teeth.

One swift bite would sedate her. Another would drain her life.

Or make her into one like himself…

Voices intruded, conversing just outside the door. He leaped away from the girl. There were too many humans here, too many to kill. With a snarl, he ran for the window and forced it open. He jumped through just as the strange humans opened the door and walked in.

After that he ran. Breeders were everywhere, but the scent of their blood sickened him. He reached the waterfront without having taken a single drop.

He charged into the warehouse and grabbed the nearest crate, tossing it across the building. He smashed the walls of his den to splinters, then tore at the blankets until nothing but shreds remained. Only when he had destroyed everything within his reach did he collapse against the wall. His muscles turned liquid, and he sank into blackness.

When he opened his eyes, faint light was filtering into the warehouse doorway. Dorian dragged his hand across his face, swallowing the foul taste on his tongue.

Then he remembered. The details were blurred, as if seen through a tarnished mirror, but he remembered enough.

He pushed himself up with his hands on the wall, testing the steadiness of his legs. He was always weak afterward. It was the small price he paid for his madness. Others paid much more.

The body lay where he’d left it, the head wrenched sideways at an impossible angle, arms twisted, throat torn. There was surprisingly little blood. Javier’s face was still unmarked, still handsome even in death.

Dorian turned his head aside and heaved. Nothing came up. He was empty, on the verge of starvation sickness. He welcomed the cramps in his belly and the fire that smoldered under his skin. It was hardly enough punishment for the things he had done at the dark of the moon, or in all the years before.

He knelt and closed Javier’s eyes with a pass of his hand. He would have to remove the body before anyone else discovered it. If he threw it in the river, humans would assume it was another mob hit.

They would not be so far from the truth.

Leaving Javier where he lay, Dorian wandered about the warehouse. Not a crate remained unbroken. Anything that could be moved had been shattered or torn or smashed. There was no sign of Walter’s bed or any of the small, precious mementos he’d collected on his visits to the rubbish bins and junkyards.

It wasn’t the fight with Javier that had done this. Dorian had run rampant after he’d returned from his fruitless hunt, blinded by rage and lust. He hadn’t been content to find the nearest human and drop him in some alley with just enough blood left in his body to keep him alive. This time he had sought very specific prey.

He had come within inches of killing Gwen Murphy.

Shaking with reaction and horror, Dorian went to the warehouse door. He edged his foot into the sunlight. All he need do was remove his clothes and take another few steps and he would begin to burn. Soon his skin would crack and blister, causing excruciating pain. But it would be over in minutes as his body’s resources were exhausted, every last particle of his strigoi strength and vitality given up to a hopeless fight.

Yes, it would be a quick way to die. Gwen would be safe from him. But even if someone else found his body before she did, she would learn of his death eventually.

Dorian stepped back. Exposure to sunlight was not the only way a vampire could end his own life. He could shoot himself in the head or sever his own spine.

Or he could simply stop feeding.

Knowing he had only a limited time, Dorian put on his overcoat and hat, and left the warehouse in search of something he could use to wrap Javier’s body. He found a roll of canvas among a stack of boating supplies. Another warehouse provided a coil of rope and a length of heavy chain, which he hid under his coat.

Javier’s body was stiff and brittle. Dorian wrapped it in the canvas, bound the bundle with the rope, and coiled the chain around everything. He couldn’t wait for nightfall to discard the body, so he dragged it out the door and scanned the docks to either side. The nearest humans were some distance away, busy loading a large freighter. Dorian carried Javier out to the end of the pier and dropped his body into the river.

It sank beneath the surface, trailing bubbles. As soon as it was out of sight, Dorian returned to the warehouse. He started at one end and began picking up the splintered remains of crates and unidentifiable objects scattered over the floor. He piled them neatly against one wall. When the concrete was bare, he put on his hat and coat again, and left without a backward glance.

DORIAN WAS THERE.

Gwen searched the warehouse in growing panic, bewildered by the heap of broken crates and the utter bareness of the space around her. Everything she saw hinted at some sort of violent struggle, and yet the way the shattered objects had been stacked so neatly against the wall hinted that someone had taken the time to clean up afterward. There was no sign of the knickknacks Walter had asked her to gather, no clue as to where Dorian might have gone.

Her heart stopped when she found the bloodstain where Dorian’s room had been. She crouched to touch the irregular circles, feeling sick. There wasn’t enough blood to suggest that someone had been killed, but Gwen didn’t doubt that the one who’d lost the blood had suffered a serious injury.

Was it Dorian?

But who would have attacked him? His past concealed a darkness she had yet to penetrate; he might have enemies. Yet this might as easily have been a random assault by hoodlums like the ones who had cornered her on the pier.

If he was hurt, why did he leave? Why didn’t he come to me?

Forcing herself into a state of rational calm, Gwen searched the waterfront. A few discreet questions gave her little to go on, though one longshoreman had seen a man in an overcoat skulking about early that morning.

By late afternoon she was sure Dorian was no longer in the area. She caught a taxi back to the hospital and rushed to Walter’s room, where the old man was taking a sip from a glass offered by the nurse at his bedside.

“Gwennie!” he said, trying to sit up. He looked past her toward the door. “Where’s Dorian?”

“Mr. Brenner,” the nurse said reprovingly. “You must lie down.”

Walter sank back, a little pale from his exertion. “Still couldn’t get him to come?” he asked.

“I can’t find him,” Gwen said, pulling a chair up beside the bed. “He’s not at the warehouse. It looks as if something might have happened there.”

“What?” Walter attempted to rise again, only to collapse in exhaustion. “What d’ya mean, something happened?”

Gwen cursed herself for upsetting him. “I don’t know,” she said carefully. “His things…” Were destroyed, she thought. But she couldn’t tell the old man that. “His things weren’t there.”

Walter uttered a mild expletive. “I was always afraid he’d run off someday.”

“Why?” Gwen asked.

“It was hard for him to be around people, even me. He thought he was taking care of me, but sometimes…” He cleared his throat. “Sometimes I pretended to be more sick than I really was, just to keep him from…doing something bad.”

“Something bad to somebody else?”

“No. I’d never believe that.” Walter closed his eyes. “The way he talked, sometimes…I thought he’d do himself a mischief.”

Gwen gripped the arms of her chair. “And now he thinks you’re in good hands.”

The old man opened his eyes again. “I won’t impose on you, Miss Murphy. Soon as I’m out of this bed…”

“Don’t you worry about that. We’ll find some decent place for you to stay until you’re well again.”

Walter was silent for a long half minute. “I hoped,” he said at last, “I hoped you’d make a difference. Give Dorian something else to think about. He took to you, Miss Murphy. Never seen him so interested in another human being.”

“Maybe you hoped for too much.”

“Maybe. But if he’s really gone, it ain’t because of you. He—”

The nurse intervened. “Mr. Brenner, it’s time for you to rest.” She gave Gwen a stern look. “You may return tomorrow, but our patient has had enough excitement for one day.”

“Just a few more minutes, please,” Gwen said. She leaned forward in her chair. “Walter, I have to find Dorian, especially if there’s a chance that he may be in trouble. Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”

The old man shook his head. “Always got the feeling he knew the city like the back of his hand. Could have gone anywhere.”

“You must have some notion, even if it’s just a guess.”

“Well…he used to talk about the place he grew up. Some old tenement in Hell’s Kitchen. Made it sound like he’d lived there a hundred years ago.”

“Did he say where this tenement was?”

“He mentioned Thirty-fourth Street.”

Gwen pinched her lower lip. “It’s a place to start.”

“Wish I could help. My damned heart…”

“I don’t want you to worry.” She squeezed his thin arm gently. “I’ll find Dorian, even if I have to turn this city upside down.”

He met her gaze with a crooked smile. “You know, I think you will.”

Gwen patted his arm again and rose. “I’ll report as soon as I know anything.” She nodded to the nurse and hurried to the door, her mind surging ahead of her feet. No one at the paper was likely to notice that she hadn’t returned to her desk; no one except Mitch took her seriously enough to care what she did or where she was. She could start looking for Dorian tonight. And if Mitch asked any questions…

Shrugging off her unease, Gwen took a taxi home and changed into a smart ensemble more appropriate to a night on the town. She applied rouge and lipstick, tied a bandeau around her hair and examined herself in the mirror, feeling self-conscious, as she so often did when she dolled up. The dress had been a gift from Mitch; she only wore it for him, and she felt like some sort of impostor every time. She’d never been glamorous and never would be.

Glamorous or not, tonight she would be entering a world of gangsters and speakeasies. She had to look like one of the regulars if she wanted to travel in that world with even a modicum of safety.

She stepped into a pair of patent pumps, threw on a coat and called another taxi. She had a feeling it was going to be a very long night.




CHAPTER FIVE


THE TENEMENT HAD been gutted, scheduled at the behest of a newly enforced city ordinance to be demolished and replaced by a more modern building. It was, Dorian thought, much like him: the obsolete product of an earlier age, useless and ready to die.

Consciousness came and went like sun and shadow glimpsed through the broken basement window. Sometimes he was entirely lucid, remembering how he had come to be in this place, and why. More often he hovered in a dream world, only half aware of the pain, well beyond hunger or any desire to feed. Even when a herd of laughing children hunted through the ruins looking for abandoned treasures, Dorian felt nothing but indifference.

Until the past came to claim him.

THE BOYS WERE older than he by several years. Their faces were already hardened by abuse and starvation and long hours in the factories; they had no mercy for one weaker than themselves. Especially one who read books and pretended to be better than they were.

“Come on,” the leader said. “Show us what you’ve learned, pretty boy.” He lifted his fists. “Aw, look. He’s afraid. He’s going to start bawling any minute.”

The boys laughed, but Joseph knew they weren’t going to stop. They would probably let him live; a murder would draw too much attention. That didn’t mean they wouldn’t beat him to within an inch of his life.

He raised his own fists and waited. When the leader attacked, Joseph punched the way he’d seen the boxers do that time when Da had bought into a bare-knuckle fight and forced him to watch. The gang boss collapsed with a woof of pain.

Fifteen minutes later Joseph lay in an alley, his face a bloody mass of cuts and bruises. He told himself it wasn’t so bad. Da had done worse.

But next time they wouldn’t have it so easy. Next time he would teach them to leave him alone…

DORIAN OPENED HIS EYES. He could no longer see well enough to make out the details of the room. The rats had crawled over him at first, trying to determine if he was edible. In the end they’d left him alone. Even when he was dead, the scavengers would leave his body untouched.

THE NIGHT WAS BITTERLY cold. Joe and the boys had been waiting for hours, knowing that Schaeffer and his gang would be coming this way after an evening of robbing hapless sailors who’d strayed from the waterfront.

Benny spat a curse and flapped his arms across his chest. “Where the hell are they?” he complained.

Joe gave him a hard look, and he subsided. The other boys shifted knives and billy clubs, working frozen fingers. When their rivals appeared, they were ready.

The fight was vicious. Two boys went down and stayed there. Schaeffer got the worst of it. What remained of his gang ran or limped away as fast as their legs would carry them. By the time the coppers arrived, Joe’s boys were long gone.

DORIAN RAISED HIS hand to his face, feeling for the scar Schaeffer’s knife had carved into his flesh. It wasn’t there. He mourned its loss; it had served him well in the old days, terrifying his enemies and followers alike. No one had challenged him after Schaeffer. No one except Little Mike.

“YOU’RE FINISHED.”

Little Mike grinned at the pickpockets, muggers and thieves who crowded behind him. Most of them were close to Joe’s age, the youngest perhaps sixteen and the eldest in his midtwenties, like Joe himself. They laughed, as much out of fear as appreciation. No one wanted to be on Mike’s bad side.

Joe knew he was as good as dead. His own bunch had fought hard to keep their territory; they’d been the last gang to maintain their independence after the Nineteenth Street band started taking over Poverty Lane. Now Joe’s boys were scattered or had given their allegiance to Little Mike. Only Joe had refused.

Mike was about to make him an example.

They handcuffed him and hung him against the wall in a boarded-up slaughterhouse, suspending him by hooks and chains. One by one, the Nineteenth Street boys punished Joe, each according to his own vicious nature. Little Mike was last. When he was finished, Joe was close to unconsciousness. His chest was on fire, making it nearly impossible to draw breath. Blood flowed from his mouth and numerous cuts, pooling beneath his feet. His eyes were nearly swollen shut, and several of his teeth were loose. At least one of his arms was broken.

Mike strolled up to him and drew his knife. “I’ll kill you quick,” he said, “if you call me boss.”

Joe spat blood in the gang leader’s face. Little Mike roared and raised the knife to slit Joe’s belly.

“Stop.”

The voice rang with authority, echoing from wall to wall. Mike swung around, knife raised. His followers also turned, but instead of confronting the intruder they melted into the shadows and kept their weapons at their sides.

The man was not tall, nor was he particularly big. He wore a top hat, a handsomely tailored frock coat, a gleaming white shirt and a perfectly tied cravat. His every movement was elegance itself, hinting at wealth and power. His face was handsome and utterly without fear. No man had ever looked more out of place than this one.

“Good evening,” he said, planting his gold-headed cane on the stained floor. “I see that you boys have been amusing yourselves.”

Little Mike stepped forward. “So?” he said. “What’s it to you?”

The stranger regarded Mike as he might a particularly ugly rat. “You’ve chosen a poor place to conduct your business,” he said. “If you wish to continue, you will have to work for me.”

“Who the hell are you?”

Dark eyes fixed on Mike’s. “My name is Raoul Boucher. I am claiming this territory on behalf of my…associates.”

Little Mike burst out laughing. His underlings tittered, but their amusement didn’t last. They fell silent as Mike advanced on Boucher, a length of chain in one hand and the knife in the other.

“You’ve made a big mistake, boyo,” he said. “There won’t be nothing left of you when we’re finished.”

Not a hint of apprehension touched Boucher’s smooth face. He simply stood, waiting, until Mike charged. Then, with a movement almost too swift for Joe to follow, he thrust out with his cane and caught Mike in the belly. Little Mike stumbled and fell flat on his face.

“One last chance,” Boucher said. “Swear allegiance to me.”

Mike struggled to his feet and scrambled away, wiping blood from his nose. “Get him!” he shrieked.

No one moved. Frothing with rage, Little Mike lunged at Boucher. This time the stranger caught Mike by the collar, transferred his grip to Mike’s neck and twisted his hand. The sound of Mike’s neck snapping was grim and final.

Boucher dropped the corpse to the ground. The leaderless Nineteenth Streeters scampered away like rabbits, leaving only a handful behind.

“Well,” Boucher said. He looked over the remaining hoodlums with appraising eyes. “You may live, if you do as I say without question. Return to this place in two days’ time, at midnight, and my vassals will instruct you.”

The gang members glanced at each other, uncertain.

“Go,” Boucher said. They ran. Boucher glanced at Joe. He sauntered toward him and stopped a few feet away.

“Will you survive, human?” he asked.

Joe forced his tongue to obey him. “I will,” he said thickly, “if you’ll cut me down.”

Boucher cocked his head. “I believe you will,” he said. Still he made no move to help. “You didn’t cry out,” he said.

“I…don’t…”

“You made no sound when they tormented you. You have courage.”

Joe felt his body shake and realized that he was laughing. “What…good would it do to scream?”

Boucher studied him for a moment longer and then released the chain that held Joe suspended. Joe fell, striking the ground hard. The pain nearly destroyed him.

Boucher knelt behind him. Joe felt the cuffs spring open, though Boucher had no key.

“Can you stand?” Boucher asked.

Joe crawled to his knees. Whirling blackness tried to suck him under. A strong, narrow hand pulled him up by the ruins of his shirt.

The eyes that stared into his were a deep brown tinged with red. “Will you serve me?” Boucher asked.

A coldness washed over Joe. “How?”

“As my enforcer. You will keep other humans obedient to me.”

“Hu-humans?”

Boucher smiled. There was something wrong with his teeth.

“Don’t be concerned, boy,” he said. “You will no longer be among them.”

He leaned forward, tearing open the collar of Joe’s shirt. It seemed for a moment that he was kissing the base of Joe’s neck, and Joe thrust out his arms in panic. But then he felt a strange sort of peace mingled with incomprehensible pleasure, and his muscles relaxed.

When he woke, there was no pain. He was naked between clean sheets, not a single injury marking his body. The room in which he lay was spartan, holding little more than a bed and a washbasin, but fresh clothing hung in the plain armoire against the wall.

Joe rose from the bed, feeling the strength surge through his body, aware of a ravening hunger such as he had never known. He had just begun to dress when Boucher walked into the room.

In an instant Joe remembered everything. And something strange happened inside him; when he looked at Boucher, he knew he was bound to the other man by means he had no way to explain.

“Good,” Boucher said. “You will come with me, and I will instruct you in what you must know.” He smiled and touched Joe’s face in the way a man might stroke a favored pet. “You shall keep your name for the time being. Someday, when you earn it, you may choose your own.”

He turned for the door. Joe closed his eyes, caught in a maelstrom of sensation.

“What am I?”

Boucher paused. “You are more than human, my protégé. And you will live a thousand years.”

DORIAN WOKE AGAIN. It was several minutes before he could distinguish the past from the present.

Joseph. Dorian. Neither name had any meaning now. Soon the husk of his body would begin to rot. He would become incapable of movement, and then his brain would start to die.

He let himself sink back into the half world of formless dreams and visions. Sometimes he thought he saw Gwen Murphy, her heart-shaped face framed with soft red curls, green eyes blazing, full lips parted as she prepared to admonish him. “You can’t die,” she said. “I won’t let you.”

Strange how clear her voice was. Clear and strong, as if words alone could draw him back from the precipice. But it was for her sake he’d come here. It was easy to let go when he remembered her sleeping in the hospital chair, her lashes brushing her cheek, completely unaware of how close she had come to death.

His cracked lips moved in a smile. Gwen. She had saved him. Saved him by showing him what he had to do. He closed his eyes.

“No!”

He felt something touch his arm and tried to brush it away. Perhaps the rats had grown bold again.

“Dorian!”

Air blew softly in his face. He imagined that he smelled flowers.

“Wake up!”

Someone began to shake him. He rolled onto his side, too weak to fight his attacker. It kept after him, claws furrowing his shirt and digging into his skin.

“No,” he murmured. “Let me be.”

“Never.”

The blow stung his face like a hive of angry bees. Instinctively he reached for the thing that had hurt him. His fingers closed on smooth flesh. He twisted, provoking a purely human cry.

He opened his eyes. The face above him was a blur topped with a corona of fire. An avenging angel come to drag him to hell.

“Dorian,” she whispered. “Please. It’s Gwen. Listen to me.”

His senses turned traitor. He couldn’t block the fragrance of clean skin and perfume, the sound of a heartbeat he knew as well as his own.

“Gwen.” His voice was hardly audible even to his own ears. “Go away.”

She leaned closer. His strength failed him. He released her, knowing he had no hope of forcing her to leave. All he could do was beg.

“Please,” he said. “There’s…nothing you can do.”

GWEN HEARD HIM WITH disbelief and horror. The creature below her bore almost no resemblance to the man she’d known: his skin was cracked, each wound seamed with dried blood; his eyes were deeply sunk in his face; his body was strangely attenuated, as if he were slowly disintegrating before her eyes.

He was dying. And he wanted it.

“Dorian,” she whispered. “Why?”

He turned his head away, dismissing her question. Dismissing her.

“It’s been two weeks,” she said, convinced that she had to keep talking, to keep him clinging to life even against his will. “I’ve been searching everywhere. All Walter could tell me was where you used to live. That wasn’t enough. I had to walk through every tenement and speakeasy, talk to people I wouldn’t trust as far as I could throw them…and this is my reward.”

The sharply outlined muscles beneath his jaw tensed. He was listening. She touched his shoulder with the greatest care, afraid his flesh might crumble under any pressure at all.

“I don’t know how you got this way,” she said, “but if you think I’ve wasted my time only to let you die, you’ve got another thing coming.”

A husk of sound emerged from his chest. She thought it might be laughter.

“Too late,” he said. “Debt…is repaid.”

“The hell it is.” Gwen looked around the filthy room, considering how she might drag him into the hallway without hurting him. “Can you get up?”

The breath rattled in his chest. Her eyes flooded, and she felt close to emptying the contents of her stomach…not that she’d had much of an appetite since Dorian had gone missing.

“If you can’t move,” she said, “I’m sending for an ambulance.”

His body heaved. He rolled over, eyes more red than gray. “No…doctors,” he said.

“You don’t leave me any choice.” She moved to get up. He seized her hand, trembling with the effort.

“No good.” Thick, dark blood trickled from his mouth. “I’m…no good for anyone.”

Oh, God. Tears spilled over her cheeks. “You’re good for me,” she whispered.

His eyes rolled up beneath his lids, and he fell back. Gwen dropped to her knees and laid her head on his chest. His heartbeat had slowed to an irregular tap, like water dripping from a leaky faucet.

“Whatever you did,” she said, “it isn’t worth this. Please, Dorian.”

She felt his hand on her hair. “Goodbye.”

He took one breath, another. His chest ceased to move under her cheek. His heart stopped.

“No!” Gwen sat up and thumped on Dorian’s ribs with her fists. Nothing. The tears were falling so thick and fast that she could hardly see him. She shook him, heedless of the raw skin beneath his torn shirt. She shouted until her voice was hoarse and her tongue like a roll of cotton wadding.

Nothing she did made any difference.

Gwen stretched out across his body, gasping with shock and grief. She pressed her cheek to his. She closed her eyes and willed herself to pretend. Pretend that he was still alive, that they were lying side by side in some peaceful place, awakening to shafts of sunlight streaming over the bedcovers.

A tickle of sensation stroked her neck. She shifted, aware of a peculiar prick of pain there at the juncture of her shoulder. It was gone as quickly as it had come, replaced by heat and a feeling of pleasure that spread through her body. Her grief began to slide away from her, dissipating into a mist of peace.

“Gwen.”

She sighed and stretched, pleasant lassitude feeding her delusion that Dorian was speaking. If this was a dream, let it continue. Let her pretend she felt his arms cradling her head, his pulse beating strong again, his hands touching her hair.

“I’m here, Gwen.”

Slowly the veil of tranquillity fell away from her eyes. She found herself staring at a wall covered in graffiti and unidentifiable stains. The surface beneath her was firm and unyielding.

Dorian’s body was gone.

She sat up, acid burning a trail down her throat. Hands grasped her arms from behind. She swung around on her knees, fists clenched.

“Gwen,” Dorian said, his eyes clear as bright water. “It’s all right.”

Her heart stuttered to a halt. “You—oh, my God—”

“Yes.” He cupped her cheek in his palm. She stared, unable to comprehend the transformation. His face was still gaunt, his skin deeply lined. But the bloody slashes were gone; his gaze was steady, and his voice, oh, his voice…

“I did not wish to be saved,” he said, “but you saved me nevertheless.”

All the strength drained out of Gwen’s legs. Dorian eased her to the pockmarked floor. He was extraordinarily gentle, more so than he’d ever been with her before. But his gaze was filled with sorrow.

“You were dying,” Gwen said, stumbling over the words. “I saw—”

“Yes,” he said again. “It is possible for the body to appear bereft of life when it continues to function.”

Gwen was in no state to argue. She stiffened her spine, afraid she would throw herself into his arms in a display that would embarrass both of them.

“Tell me,” she said. “Tell me why. Why you ran away. Why you let yourself…” The lump in her throat threatened to melt into more treacherous tears. “What was so terrible that you couldn’t bear to go on living?”

His hands fell from her shoulders. “You would wish me dead if you knew.”

“You idiot.” She laughed, half-crazy with relief. “I could never hate you.”

“You are not at all sensible, Miss Murphy.”

“Oh…Gwen, Gwen, for God’s sake.” She grabbed his hands, stroking her fingers across the veins and tendons that stood out beneath the skin. “Tell me. Get it off your chest before you—”

She realized that he was staring at her lips, a muscle ticking at the corner of his mouth. She pulled away.

“I’m not going to insist,” she said, “not after what you’ve just been through. About that ambulance…”

His sharp glance silenced her on that subject. “All right,” she said. “But you’ve got to see a doctor.”

He shook his head, and she knew this was a battle she couldn’t win. “In that case, you’re coming back to my apartment,” she said. “You’re going to stay in bed until you’re fully recovered.”

“That would not be at all wise.”

“Sure. I’ve heard it all before.” She got up, tested her legs, and debated how best to get him on his feet. “I’d carry you if I could, but that’s obviously not an option.”

He laid his hands flat on the floor and pushed. He failed in his first attempt, but when Gwen grabbed him under his arm, he was finally able to stand.

“Slowly,” she said. “There’s no rush.”

Dorian allowed her to steer him toward the door but stopped on the threshold.

“What time is it?”

“Why does that…Oh, of course. Your sensitivity to sunlight.” She checked her watch. “It should be just about dark by now.”

He didn’t move. “Think, Gwen. Consider what you’re doing.”

“I have.” She took a firmer grip on his arm and supported him along the corridor, feeling her way, dodging rats and cockroaches that had emerged with the coming of night. When she stumbled over a pile of abandoned furniture, Dorian took the lead, though his pace was still carefully measured.

The night air, even in a place like Hell’s Kitchen, was sweet compared to the close, decaying atmosphere inside the condemned building. There were no taxis in the area, so Gwen half carried Dorian in the direction of Midtown. A few hooligans, seeing a woman and a crippled man, attempted to harass them, but Dorian turned his stare on the boys and they quickly absconded.

After a good half mile, Gwen spotted a taxi and managed to get the cabbie’s attention. She settled Dorian beside her in the backseat and braced him against the driver’s reckless speed and sudden turns until they were safely in front of her apartment building. She got out and assisted Dorian from the cab.

“You need help, lady?” the cabbie asked, examining Dorian with a frown.

“I can manage, thanks.” Gwen felt Dorian lean more heavily on her arm and knew he was at the end of his strength. With a last, determined effort, she hauled him up two flights of stairs to her door. She fumbled with the key, pushed the door open with her foot, and tugged Dorian through the tiny living room and into her bedroom.

Dorian made no protest as she dropped him onto the bed. He was breathing deeply, and his skin was very pale; fresh worry blossomed in her chest.

“You just stay right there and rest,” she said. “I’ll get something for you to drink, and a little food.”

He opened one bloodshot eye. “Water,” he said. “No food.”

“All right. But you’ll have to eat sooner or later.” Reluctantly she left him and hurried to the kitchen. Plain water hardly seemed enough. She settled on making him a cup of weak tea instead, and placed a half-dozen soda crackers on the saucer.

When she returned to the bedroom he seemed to be asleep, but his eyes were wide open and she had the uncanny impression that he really wasn’t sleeping at all. She set the teacup down and stood over the bed.

“Dorian?”

He didn’t respond. Once again Gwen considered calling a doctor, but she decided to wait a while and see how well he did on his own. He’d already made a miraculous recovery.

“I’ll have to get you out of those clothes,” she said, watching his face. Still nothing. Doing her best not to disturb him, she knelt and began to unbutton his shirt. It was stiff with blood and sweat, but she was finally able to ease it off his shoulders. Dorian didn’t stir, even when she lifted his head from the pillow. She threw the shirt into the corner of the room and paused to look for injuries.

Dorian’s chest, lightly dusted with dark hair, rose and fell steadily. For a man who had obviously been near starvation, he was in reasonably good shape; his ribs were prominent, but the sleek muscles of his torso were still intact.

Gwen bit her lower lip. There was no doubt that she’d always found him attractive. If she ignored the bruising that marked his upper body, she could only judge him beautiful: perfectly proportioned, strong, undeniably masculine. It would be easy to stand here staring at him for hours.

Retreating into a purely clinical state of mind, she unbuttoned his trousers. Halfway down, she could see he wasn’t wearing any drawers. And that was hardly the least of it. His…member was fully erect, straining against the fabric under her fingers.

Torn between curiosity and self-consciousness, Gwen hesitated. She’d never seen a naked man before, though she’d read enough about sex to know that there was nothing unusual in Dorian’s “equipment” except perhaps in size. He was quite…impressive.

Watching his face to make sure he was still unaware of her movements, Gwen finished unbuttoning him. His erection almost jumped into her hand. She stepped back, swallowed and tugged the trousers down his legs.

If Mitch could see me now…if he had any notion of the crazy thoughts going through my mind…

Dorian made a low sound and turned his head on the pillows. Gwen froze, but he sank back into unconsciousness immediately.

Gwen retreated to a chair and sat on the edge. He desperately needed a bath. She still didn’t know how many of the marks on his body were the result of injuries.

And oh, how she longed to touch him.

You think Dorian is crazy. How about you, Gwennie-girl? What do you think will happen if he wakes up to find you—

She could barely complete the thought. Her face was on fire, and she knew if she looked in the mirror she would see every freckle standing out in sharp relief. She shot up from the chair and rushed into the kitchen, where she found a bottle of whiskey she’d kept in a cupboard for ages. She poured herself a shot and downed it in a single gulp.

There were just some things even the most modern woman shouldn’t take lightly. Losing her virginity was one of them. And yet. And yet…

Gwen set her glass down with a bang and strode into the bathroom, selecting several towels and washcloths from the linen closet. She took a washbowl from underneath the sink, filled it with warm water, and carried it and the towels into the bedroom.

If it hadn’t been for the rise and fall of his chest, anyone might well have believed that Dorian was dead. Gwen knew otherwise; already he looked a thousand times better than he had when she’d found him. She set the washbowl on the bedside table and dipped one of the cloths into the water. She took a deep breath and laid the washcloth on Dorian’s shoulder. When he didn’t react, she stroked the cloth over his skin, working from the base of his neck to the bulge of his biceps.

The cloth came away soiled, but it was clear that Dorian’s injuries were not nearly as severe as she’d first feared. She began to wash the lower part of his arm, then moved to his chest. Her fingers strayed, drifting over the curve of his pectoralis. Even at the peak of health, Mitch wasn’t this well developed. Of course she’d never seen anything below his waist, but she had the feeling…

Her insides tightened as she moved lower. Dorian’s stomach was ridged and firm, though it was mottled with fading bruises. She swirled the washcloth around his navel, fascinated by the sculpted vee of muscle that plunged from hips to groin.

And then there were only two choices. She could make a jump to his legs, or touch him like a lover.

She closed her eyes and stroked the cloth downward. His cock—a vulgar word, but one that could hardly shock an experienced newswoman—had relaxed and was quiescent for perhaps twenty seconds before it began to swell again. Soon it lay flat against his stomach, surprisingly smooth from base to head. She touched it with her fingertip. It was as silky as it looked, yet hard and unyielding. It would do its job beautifully.

Wanton images crowded Gwen’s head. With infinite care she closed her fingers around him.

His hand shot out like a striking cobra and seized her wrist.

Half afraid of what she might see, she glanced at his face. If the man on the bed had been Mitch instead of Dorian, she would have expected a healthy dose of shock. He would have every reason to wonder when she’d adopted such a shameless attitude, what a good Catholic girl was doing handling a man’s private parts, even if that man wanted to make an honest woman of her.

But Mitch’s instincts were all male. He was impatient for their marriage because he wanted to share her bed. Whatever his momentary reservations, he wouldn’t be able to conceal the hunger in his eyes.

Dorian could, and did. His teeth clenched, and the tendons in his neck stood out like steel cables. He looked at her as if her touch was as unwelcome as a case of the measles.

“Go,” he rasped. “Get out.”

Gwen snatched up the bowl and fled the room, feeling more shaky than she had right after he had rescued her from drowning.

Once in the bathroom, she closed the door and leaned over the sink, too dizzy to trust her balance. Her reflection in the mirror looked drawn and haggard, the result of two weeks of balancing her work at the paper with the desperate search for Dorian. Now that she’d found him, she didn’t know what do to with him.

She didn’t know what to do with herself.

Gwen blew out her breath and splashed water over her face, knowing it would take a lot more than a good dousing to make her forget what she’d seen and felt tonight.




CHAPTER SIX


“YOU WERE RIGHT, Mr. Hogan,” Pete Wilkins said, patting the Leica thirty-five millimeter camera hanging by his side. “Miss Murphy brought some fella back to her apartment. I think he was sick…he didn’t walk too well.”

Mitch kept his face a blank. Wilkins had been glad enough to help him; the boy had ambitions to be a photographer for the Sentinel, and he would have done just about anything to obtain Mitch’s good word. But under no circumstances would Mitch allow the kid to see his true feelings, especially when they were caused by a woman.

“Did you get photographs?” he asked.

“Sure.” Wilkins hesitated. “I don’t know how well they came out, though. The guy had his head down most of the time.”

“I see.”

“I can go back, Mr. Hogan. The man didn’t leave the building. He’s probably still there, and—”

“I may need you again, Pete. That’s all for now.”

“Sure. Anytime.” He backed away and walked out of the city room.

Mitch turned and bent over his desk, shuffling papers with numb fingers. He finally had an idea of what had been making Gwen behave so oddly for the past two weeks, working like a demon during the day and vanishing every night. He still couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that she’d been seeing another man; she could have no earthly reason for looking elsewhere when she had a devoted suitor—personable, respectable and comfortably situated—ready to marry her at a moment’s notice. And it wasn’t like her to sneak around. If she had fallen in love with someone else, she would have told him outright.

Would she? She hasn’t given you a straight answer to your proposal. You knew she was hiding something. Why should she tell the truth about this?

He crumpled a blank sheet of paper between his hands. Why had Gwen taken a sick man to her apartment? It certainly didn’t seem like a standard assignation. And for all his doubts, Mitch found it impossible to believe that she would casually share a bed with someone she couldn’t have known for very long.

It’s only recently that she’s been so distant. This is something new.

Something new, but surely not serious. And that meant that he still had an excellent chance of nipping the relationship, whatever it might be, in the bud. But he wouldn’t confront Gwen. Not yet. He would use Pete a little longer and see what else he could learn.

Everyone has something to hide, Guinevere…even your new friend. And when I find out who he is and what he’s afraid of, I’ll make sure he disappears from your life. And mine.

DORIAN LISTENED TO THE door close and opened his eyes.

Gwen had believed he was asleep, as he’d pretended to be for most of the previous day and night. They had hardly spoken since he’d caught her touching him, the memory of her bold actions suspended between them like a hangman’s noose.

Blushing and self-conscious, Gwen had made him a simple dinner and let him eat it alone. She’d retired to the living room to sleep on the sofa, as if that small distance would protect them both from a serious breach of propriety.

Not that he’d given her any reason to fear that he would return her advances. Quite the contrary. He had deliberately maintained his distance, pretending an indifference he didn’t feel while his body raged with need. His senses were stretched thin, attentive to her every movement. The slightest scent of her body made him harden, and all he could think of was taking her in this very bed.

Now she was gone, if only for the day, and the relief was overwhelming. He sat up, propped against the pillows, and flexed his arms. It had taken only twenty-four hours for him to recover, though he was still a little weak. Gwen’s blood had worked a miracle.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, noting the clothing she had laid out for him on the room’s single chair: a sandcolored fisherman’s sweater, a pair of flannel trousers, stockings and plain brown oxfords. It was the uniform of an ordinary man, no doubt purchased by Gwen at some local shop. Dorian hadn’t worn apparel even remotely like it since his youth, not in all the years since he’d started working for Raoul.

Slowly he pulled the sweater over his head and stepped into the trousers. Leaving the oxfords and stockings at the foot of the chair, he went into the living room. A pile of blankets lay heaped on the sofa. Against his will, Dorian walked to the couch and lifted one of the blankets, pressing it to his face. His cock came to instant attention.

He inhaled deeply, rubbing his cheek against the blanket. For months he’d lived rudderless, with no one to command him and no duty to consume his thoughts. Death had seemed better than such emptiness. But then Gwen had come into his life, and suddenly the hollow in his heart was filled.

He had never been as afraid as he was at this moment.

With another ragged breath, Dorian tossed the blanket back on the sofa. A folded piece of paper fell to the carpet. He picked it up and opened it. The lines were written in a strong cursive, as eloquent of Gwen as the scent of her hair.

Good morning, Dorian.

If you’re reading this, you’re up and about. Don’t push yourself. There’s more food in the kitchen. Take as much as you like. I’ll pick up more on my way back from the office.

Something I forgot to mention, and since you may be wondering: Walter is fine. I’ve set him up in a little boardinghouse where he’ll be around other people and the doctor can visit him occasionally. Considering his age, he’s in pretty good shape. I’ll take you to see him once you’re up to it.

Rest. I’ll be back by seven.

Gwen’s signature was a broad flourish, a confident sweep of the pen that belied her earlier unease. Dorian refolded the note and laid it on the sofa. He’d hardly thought of Walter once he’d committed himself to suicide, convinced that Gwen would see to the old man’s welfare. And she had. Even if Dorian feared what she’d done in saving his own life, he owed her greatly for saving Walter’s.

His thoughts in turmoil, Dorian wandered about the small apartment. The furniture was modest both in price and design, suitable for a woman who spent little time at home. There were only four rooms, including the bathroom, every one neat and well organized. The one exception was the secretary near the single window in the corner of the living room. It was scattered with manila folders and blotched with ink stains, though there were indications that Gwen had recently attempted to clean it. An antique typewriter took up the center space in front of the battered steno chair.

Also on the desk was a photograph of an older man holding a certificate, which on closer inspection proved to be a Pulitzer Prize in journalism. Dorian picked up the photograph. The man had graying auburn hair and lively eyes that forcefully reminded Dorian of Gwen. The name on the certificate was Eamon Murphy.

Dorian set down the photo and opened one of the folders. In it were several obituaries for Eamon Murphy and a number of newspaper articles written by him; the sheer volume of the stories and their prominence among the front pages suggested that he’d been a senior reporter at the Sentinel.

His interest fully aroused, Dorian continued to study the notes and clippings. At the bottom of the stack he found a torn sheet of newsprint, a page out of the Sentinel dated eight months previous. The page number indicated that the Murphy article, circled in red pencil, had held a lowly position at the back of the newspaper. But when Dorian began to read the headline, all the fine hairs at the base of his neck came erect.

Is Blood Cult Responsible for Recent Deaths?

He quickly scanned the columns. Murphy advanced the seemingly bizarre theory that several murders committed in the months before the paper’s date, attributed by police to mobs fighting over territory, had actually been perpetrated by a secret cult operating out of Manhattan, a cult that engaged in the unique practice of draining all the blood from the corpses of its victims. The story was no more than a few paragraphs, unaccompanied by pictures. Clearly the Sentinel’s editors had not found Murphy’s conjecture plausible enough to warrant a more prominent place in the newspaper.

At the bottom of the page was a barely legible scrawl in a feminine hand: Waterfront murders?

Dorian dropped the paper. He’d foolishly assumed that Gwen’s interest in the triple murders on the docks had been nothing more than that of any reporter doggedly pursuing yet another story about gangland assassinations.

None of the remaining papers shed further light on Murphy’s conjecture or Gwen’s query. The drawer at the front of the desk was locked. Dorian forced it open and found a folder bulging with lined notepaper and more clippings. The label read Dad’s Notes. Dorian laid the folder on the table and spread the clippings on the desktop.

About half of the articles were stories covering homicides that had occurred over the past two years, ranging from presumed mob hits to unsolved murders. Notations written in a masculine hand decorated the browned margins, most unintelligible.

A single torn sheet of white paper, neatly typed, revealed Murphy’s thoughts.

They exist. I don’t know who they are yet, but I do know that I’m on the verge of uncovering something important, something that will expose the killers and vindicate me.

It is increasingly clear that this organization bears no loyalty toward any of the various gangs in Manhattan, but has a very specific agenda of its own. Today a man came to see me, calling himself by the name of Aadon and claiming that he possessed invaluable details of several past murders that would open my eyes to a world hidden from all but a privileged few. He brought with him a book, which I have only just begun to read. I now have reason to believe

And there the note ended. In the bottom margin Gwen had written: Pages missing. Why? What book? Who is Aadon?

The last three words were heavily underscored. Dorian rubbed his chin and stared at the closed, dusty curtains behind the desk. Aadon. He had never heard the name, nor did he have any idea to which book Eamon had referred. The reporter’s ideas would certainly seem the ravings of a lunatic to most humans. But it appeared as if he had unwittingly come close to exposing a truth mankind had only suspected throughout its history: the existence of the nonhuman races.

Dorian set the typed page aside. Beneath it, clipped to a sheet of thin cardboard, was a photograph. It showed a youngish man with a narrow face and intense eyes, and underneath someone had written: Aadon. On the reverse side of the cardboard was glued yet another clipping, this one about a corpse, badly burned, dredged from the river on the afternoon of February 4, 1926. That had been only a few weeks before Eamon Murphy died.

Murphy’s theory should have died with him. But he had a daughter who had kept his notes and clippings, a reporter in her own right. Her father couldn’t have known about the most recent murders, but Gwen did. She knew the corpses had been drained of blood, and she had clearly decided that there was some merit in her father’s ideas, or at least that she had an obligation to continue his investigation.

And what did she have to build on? Blood cults. Human corpses bled white. A mysterious man who had turned up in the river—perhaps after he’d promised Eamon information that would prove his theories.

It all added up to a very dangerous equation. And Gwen was in the middle of it.

The apartment door rattled. Dorian shoved the papers back into the folder and was just putting them in the drawer when Gwen walked in.

“You’re up!” she said, her eyes sparkling with pleasure. “Are you sure you should be—” She saw what he had in his hands and stopped. Her gaze flew accusingly to his.

Dorian backed away from the desk and lifted his hands as if she were holding a Tommy gun pointed at his head. She charged forward, slammed the drawer shut and spun to confront him.

“You broke into my desk,” she said. “Why?”

No ready answer came to Dorian’s mind. “I was curious about your profession,” he said.

Her shoulders relaxed. “If you’d wanted to know,” she said, “all you had to do was ask.”

“I apologize.” He retreated to the sofa and sat down, hoping to allay her distress. “I was unaware that there were aspects of your work you preferred to keep secret.”

“A locked drawer usually means—” She took a deep breath and blew it out. “Okay. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t know, as long as you don’t tell anyone at the Sentinel.”

“About your father’s ideas?”

She nodded, swivelled the steno chair to face him and sat down. “I only came back to the apartment because I forgot my notebook,” she said, “but a few more minutes won’t matter.” She pulled her skirt over her knees. “How much did you read?”

“Enough to know that your father’s theory of a murderous cult did not meet with the approval of his employers at the Sentinel.”

“That’s right.” She slumped in the chair. “It was almost all Dad thought about during the year before he died. Everyone saw how much he’d changed. When he approached the city editor with the cult story…” She knotted her hands in her lap. “They thought he’d gone crazy.”

“Had he?”

“No! He…” She sighed. “The odd thing is that he seemed to become very quiet in the last weeks, as if he’d given up. It wasn’t like him. He wouldn’t talk to me about it. And all these notes…” She made a helpless gesture. “I didn’t know anything about them until he was gone.”

“He was a gifted reporter, was he not?”

She smiled wistfully. “He was the best there was.”

“Then you accept his theories.”

“At first all I could think of was proving he was right. But in spite of all the work Dad had done, all this stuff he’d locked away in his files, he’d left too many questions unanswered. Until the cops found the bodies on the waterfront, it didn’t seem I had much to work with.”

Dorian was careful to keep his expression one of restrained interest. “But the state of those bodies led you to believe that your father might have been correct.”

“It’s crazy, I know. But I’ve never heard of regular mobsters who did that kind of thing.”

“Indeed.” Dorian settled more deeply into the sofa’s sprung cushions. “So you’ve continued to pursue the story on your father’s behalf?”

“Strictly on the Q.T. Officially the triple murder case belongs to Randolph Hewitt. He’s one of the senior reporters in the city room. He never liked my dad, and he already suspects I’m poaching on his territory.”

“You don’t think he’ll support your father’s conclusions?”

“Even reporters are human. Sometimes they see only what they want to see.”

Dorian curled his fingers around the arm of the sofa. “Do you have any specific information that would confirm the cult theory?”

“Not so far. But I’m getting close. Remember how I told you that I was supposed to meet a witness on the waterfront the day those hooligans introduced me to the fishes? That lead hasn’t panned out, but there was this man, Aadon…” She smoothed an imaginary wrinkle in her skirt. “After I read through Dad’s notes and saw the photograph, I realized that the same guy was found in the river not long after he met with Dad.” She shook her head. “I hit a dead end with that lead, too, but I’m sure I missed something important. This time I’ll push on until I find the truth.”

“And what of this book?”

“That’s the biggest puzzle of all. There wasn’t any sort of unusual book among Dad’s things. And he didn’t mention it again in his notes. It’s as if he wanted to keep it hidden.”

Dorian leaned forward, unable to contain his disquiet. “Have you considered what you’ll do if you discover that your father was wrong?”

“He wasn’t. If I can expose the presence of a genuine murderous cult in Manhattan, I’ll not only redeem my father but also prove that I can handle the big stories. They won’t be able to shuffle me off to the back pages anymore.”

Briefly Dorian closed his eyes. It was every bit as bad as he’d feared. “I advise you in the strongest terms not to continue,” he said.

Her silence was as sharp as a knife. “Why?” she asked. “Do you know something I don’t, Dorian? Something you’ve been keeping from me?”

“I know the waterfront. I know the city. I know how far certain elements will go to eliminate their rivals. Gwen…” He raised his hands and let them fall again. “The evil that men do needs no arcane explanation.”

Gwen got up, shoving the chair against the desk. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t take your advice.” She checked her watch. “I have to get back to work. There’s some sandwich meat in the icebox and a loaf of bread on the table.” She snatched a notebook from the desk, took her father’s folder out of the drawer and hurried to the door. Then she was gone, the smell of her lingering just inside the doorway.

Dorian sprang up and paced the length of the room and back. He still wasn’t sure how completely Gwen believed the cult story, but she obviously wasn’t going to rest until she’d found an answer that satisfied her.

Either Raoul hadn’t known of the senior Murphy’s quest, or he hadn’t considered it a threat. All throughout history, strigoi—whenever they organized in families, colonies or clans, as they periodically did—had worked to silence those who might expose their hidden presence in society. Though he had never been involved in such a task, Dorian knew that past clan leaders, and quite possibly Raoul himself, had ordered hits on humans who showed a little too much curiosity.

Most reporters pursuing stories about mob assassinations or related crimes naturally assumed that they were committed by the high-profile human bosses in the city. They never suspected that Raoul’s gang was different from any other, and that usually protected them.

If Raoul had known of Gwen’s father, his would-be heirs, Kyril and Christof, might possess that same knowledge. They might or might not realize that Gwen and Hewitt had continued Eamon’s investigation. And whether or not they found out and took action to hinder Gwen’s work depended entirely on how close her persistence took her to the truth of vampire existence.

Dorian slammed his fist against the nearest wall. He never should have gotten involved with a human. He never should have given in to instinct and taken Gwen’s blood just to keep himself alive.

But the damage was done. He’d fed from her only once, in the most basic sense—there had been no danger of inadvertently Converting her. Yet now that he had tasted her blood—now that he had allowed her to influence the course of his existence—he couldn’t permit her to throw her life away.

So what was to be done? Arguing with her would only make her suspicious of his motives. He must find a way to keep careful watch on Gwen’s progress and eventually derail her investigation. To do so, he would have to remain close to her. But human morality would scarcely sanction his continuing to share living quarters with a young, unmarried woman.

For the rest of the afternoon he read through the notes Gwen had left and considered his best course of action. He made several sandwiches and ate them quickly, tasting nothing. He scarcely noticed when the light from the window faded and the street lamps began to shine feeble defiance against the night.

Gwen burst into the apartment at a quarter after seven. “Good news!” she cried, throwing her pocketbook on the sofa. “I’ve got you a job.”

Her words hardly made sense to him. He stood awkwardly, hands folded behind his back. “A job?”

She looked at him more carefully. “You haven’t been resting, have you?”

The ease of Gwen’s speech suggested she had overcome her self-consciousness about her behavior of the previous day. Dorian had received no such benefit from their hours of separation. Her nearness triggered an almost unbearable hunger that tightened every muscle in readiness for the hunt.

“I am quite well,” he said stiffly.

“You do look a lot better. I’ve never seen anyone recover so quickly. It’s downright spooky.” She unbuttoned her coat. “Did you eat?”

“Yes.” He turned from the sight of the blood pulsing beneath her fair skin. “Was your day pleasant?”

She laughed. “Where did you learn to small talk, Dorian? Oh, never mind. I’m no good at it, either.” She sprawled on the sofa, kicking off her pumps with a groan of appreciation. “I’ve been thinking about how to get you back into the world of the living. Today I found out that our night janitor is leaving for another job. I told Mrs. Frost—she’s the woman in charge of hiring support staff—that I knew of a perfect candidate to replace him. You.”

“I don’t understand.”

“What’s to understand? A job will get you off the streets. Unless you think that kind of work is beneath you.”

Dorian circled the room, his thoughts fogged with need. “No,” he said. “I…why should you trust me with a post at your newspaper?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“How much do you really know of me, Gwen?”

She sighed and pushed her hand through her hair, all the laughter gone from her eyes. “Okay. Let’s have it out here and now. What happened at the warehouse, Dorian? Whose blood did I find?”

So it comes, Dorian thought grimly. The chance to drive her away once and for all, or to commit myself to saving her from herself.

But the decision was already made. “The blood was mine,” he said. “I had an…altercation with several hooligans.”

“The warehouse looked as if an explosion had hit it.”

“Yes.”

“You obviously survived. Why did you try to kill yourself, Dorian?”

The time had come for a small part of the truth. “I am prone to regular intervals in which I find myself…drawn back to another time and place. During such intervals it is inadvisable for anyone to approach me with less than friendly intent.”

“Walter mentioned something about that. He called it a ‘mood.’”

“I fear he is too mild in his description.”

“How?”

“I am not rational at such times, Gwen. That is why I warned you away when we first met.”

“I remember.” The look in her eyes told him that she had no trouble recalling how he’d behaved after he’d saved her from the river. “You didn’t hurt me, and you never hurt Walter, either.”

“But I did injure the men who attacked me.”

She went a little pale. “Did you kill them?”

“They are not likely to attempt to harm anyone again in the near future.”

“And that’s why you tried to commit suicide? Because you dared to defend yourself against a pack of wharf rats?”

Dorian looked away. “Losing oneself…is not a pleasant prospect. I had no desire to risk harming anyone else.”

“And that proves you’re not as lost as you think you are. Once you have a steady job, we can find a way to help you. There are plenty of other men who suffered from the War in the same way you have.”

The War. Once again she assumed that he’d fought in Europe, when he’d never set foot outside the state of New York.

“Are you certain you still wish me for the janitorial position?” he asked.

Gwen caught his gaze. “You can’t solve your problems by hiding for the rest of your life. Maybe a little regular work is exactly what you need.”

“And if I prove unsuitable?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. And if one of these moods comes over you, you’ll have a place to go. I’ve gotten you the room next to Walter’s at the boardinghouse.”

“That was unnecessary.”

“You can’t stay here, you know. And I won’t let you go back to that horrid warehouse.”

He inclined his head, conceding defeat. If Gwen was not discouraged by his partial confession, he could not refuse her offer. Though he couldn’t stay by her side every moment, he would have access to any research she conducted from the newspaper office. And he would have an excuse to continue their relationship, should she begin to lose her crusading determination to reform him.

An excuse, indeed. An excuse to continue taking her blood. An excuse to go on feeling the strange mingling of frustration and exhilaration he experienced whenever she was within his reach.

“Sit down, will you?” Gwen complained. “I get the heebiejeebies when you loom over me like that.”

Dorian retreated to the far wall. “You were generous to do this on my behalf,” he said.

“I told you I wasn’t going to give up on you. I meant it.” She stretched her arms over her head. “You can move to the boardinghouse tomorrow morning.”

“And I will begin to repay you when I receive my first compensation.”

“There’s no hurry. I know you’re good for it.” She stretched again and rose, padding toward the kitchen in her stockinged feet. “I’m starved. Do you want some soup?”

Dorian hesitated, dreading the thought of sharing even closer quarters with her.

Tonight, he told himself. Tonight, while she sleeps.

He followed her into the kitchen.

“WHO IS HE?”

Mitch stood over Gwen’s desk, his face flushed with anger. She’d hardly ever seen him so emotional; he’d always prided himself on being in complete control of his feelings. Only lately had he begun to reveal open frustration and annoyance with her. She didn’t like the results.

“I’ve told you all I know,” she said, drawing on the rags of her patience. “I found him on the streets. He reminded me of Barry, so I decided to help him.”

“You just ‘found him on the streets.’”

“That’s right. It was obvious that he was a doughboy who’d suffered since the War. Was helping him so wrong?”

“A doughboy? He can’t be much older than you are.”

“Some of them served at fifteen and sixteen.”

“But you don’t know anything about his past.”

She shrugged. “If he can’t do the job, we’ll find out soon enough.”

Mitch lowered his head like a bull about to charge. “What else is going on, Gwen?”

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous of some poor guy who doesn’t have a dime to his name?”

He stared at the far wall. “Of course I’m not jealous.”

“Then give him a chance. You’ll hardly have to see him, anyway.”

Fury boiling behind his eyes, Mitch stalked away. Gwen leaned on her elbows and rubbed at her forehead. Dorian had only been at the Sentinel for a few days, and Mitch had been brooding the whole time. The first night, when he’d been finishing up a story and Gwen had introduced him to Dorian, there had been a palpable hostility on his part. It was as if he’d guessed that Dorian had spent several nights at her apartment. As if he knew she’d behaved in a way that would have shocked him.

Whatever had been going through his mind, then and now, she had to admit that his instincts weren’t entirely wrong. There was something else going on. Something that had possessed her from the moment she’d held Dorian’s dying body in her arms. Something she had done her best to deny, entirely without success.

She’d felt some measure of relief when Dorian had moved out of her apartment and taken up residence with Walter, but she found herself thinking of him when she should have been concentrating on her assignments. Looking forward to the hour when he showed up for work, quiet and contained, less and less like the disturbed and antagonistic recluse she’d met at the waterfront or the man who’d so recently wanted to end his own life.

But Dorian was still dangerous, for all his willingness to carry out his humble duties. She often worked late; when he came into the office with mop and broom and dustpan, she couldn’t stop watching him, the working of muscle under his corduroy trousers, the flex of his arms and shoulders. Sometimes he looked up and met her gaze, and she almost let herself believe she saw hunger in his eyes before he turned away.





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