Читать книгу Dark of the Moon - Susan Krinard - Страница 7

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.