Dark of the Moon

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.