Dark of the Moon

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.