Читать книгу Dark of the Moon - Susan Krinard - Страница 11

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.