Читать книгу Dark of the Moon - Susan Krinard - Страница 10

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.’”