Dark of the Moon

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.