Читать книгу Dark of the Moon - Susan Krinard - Страница 12

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.