Dark of the Moon

“At first all I could think of was proving he was right. But in spite of all the work Dad had done, all this stuff he’d locked away in his files, he’d left too many questions unanswered. Until the cops found the bodies on the waterfront, it didn’t seem I had much to work with.”

Dorian was careful to keep his expression one of restrained interest. “But the state of those bodies led you to believe that your father might have been correct.”

“It’s crazy, I know. But I’ve never heard of regular mobsters who did that kind of thing.”

“Indeed.” Dorian settled more deeply into the sofa’s sprung cushions. “So you’ve continued to pursue the story on your father’s behalf?”

“Strictly on the Q.T. Officially the triple murder case belongs to Randolph Hewitt. He’s one of the senior reporters in the city room. He never liked my dad, and he already suspects I’m poaching on his territory.”

“You don’t think he’ll support your father’s conclusions?”

“Even reporters are human. Sometimes they see only what they want to see.”

Dorian curled his fingers around the arm of the sofa. “Do you have any specific information that would confirm the cult theory?”

“Not so far. But I’m getting close. Remember how I told you that I was supposed to meet a witness on the waterfront the day those hooligans introduced me to the fishes? That lead hasn’t panned out, but there was this man, Aadon…” She smoothed an imaginary wrinkle in her skirt. “After I read through Dad’s notes and saw the photograph, I realized that the same guy was found in the river not long after he met with Dad.” She shook her head. “I hit a dead end with that lead, too, but I’m sure I missed something important. This time I’ll push on until I find the truth.”

“And what of this book?”

“That’s the biggest puzzle of all. There wasn’t any sort of unusual book among Dad’s things. And he didn’t mention it again in his notes. It’s as if he wanted to keep it hidden.”

Dorian leaned forward, unable to contain his disquiet. “Have you considered what you’ll do if you discover that your father was wrong?”

“He wasn’t. If I can expose the presence of a genuine murderous cult in Manhattan, I’ll not only redeem my father but also prove that I can handle the big stories. They won’t be able to shuffle me off to the back pages anymore.”

Briefly Dorian closed his eyes. It was every bit as bad as he’d feared. “I advise you in the strongest terms not to continue,” he said.

Her silence was as sharp as a knife. “Why?” she asked. “Do you know something I don’t, Dorian? Something you’ve been keeping from me?”

“I know the waterfront. I know the city. I know how far certain elements will go to eliminate their rivals. Gwen…” He raised his hands and let them fall again. “The evil that men do needs no arcane explanation.”

Gwen got up, shoving the chair against the desk. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t take your advice.” She checked her watch. “I have to get back to work. There’s some sandwich meat in the icebox and a loaf of bread on the table.” She snatched a notebook from the desk, took her father’s folder out of the drawer and hurried to the door. Then she was gone, the smell of her lingering just inside the doorway.

Dorian sprang up and paced the length of the room and back. He still wasn’t sure how completely Gwen believed the cult story, but she obviously wasn’t going to rest until she’d found an answer that satisfied her.

Either Raoul hadn’t known of the senior Murphy’s quest, or he hadn’t considered it a threat. All throughout history, strigoi—whenever they organized in families, colonies or clans, as they periodically did—had worked to silence those who might expose their hidden presence in society. Though he had never been involved in such a task, Dorian knew that past clan leaders, and quite possibly Raoul himself, had ordered hits on humans who showed a little too much curiosity.

Most reporters pursuing stories about mob assassinations or related crimes naturally assumed that they were committed by the high-profile human bosses in the city. They never suspected that Raoul’s gang was different from any other, and that usually protected them.

If Raoul had known of Gwen’s father, his would-be heirs, Kyril and Christof, might possess that same knowledge. They might or might not realize that Gwen and Hewitt had continued Eamon’s investigation. And whether or not they found out and took action to hinder Gwen’s work depended entirely on how close her persistence took her to the truth of vampire existence.

Dorian slammed his fist against the nearest wall. He never should have gotten involved with a human. He never should have given in to instinct and taken Gwen’s blood just to keep himself alive.

But the damage was done. He’d fed from her only once, in the most basic sense—there had been no danger of inadvertently Converting her. Yet now that he had tasted her blood—now that he had allowed her to influence the course of his existence—he couldn’t permit her to throw her life away.

So what was to be done? Arguing with her would only make her suspicious of his motives. He must find a way to keep careful watch on Gwen’s progress and eventually derail her investigation. To do so, he would have to remain close to her. But human morality would scarcely sanction his continuing to share living quarters with a young, unmarried woman.

For the rest of the afternoon he read through the notes Gwen had left and considered his best course of action. He made several sandwiches and ate them quickly, tasting nothing. He scarcely noticed when the light from the window faded and the street lamps began to shine feeble defiance against the night.

Gwen burst into the apartment at a quarter after seven. “Good news!” she cried, throwing her pocketbook on the sofa. “I’ve got you a job.”

Her words hardly made sense to him. He stood awkwardly, hands folded behind his back. “A job?”

She looked at him more carefully. “You haven’t been resting, have you?”

The ease of Gwen’s speech suggested she had overcome her self-consciousness about her behavior of the previous day. Dorian had received no such benefit from their hours of separation. Her nearness triggered an almost unbearable hunger that tightened every muscle in readiness for the hunt.

“I am quite well,” he said stiffly.

“You do look a lot better. I’ve never seen anyone recover so quickly. It’s downright spooky.” She unbuttoned her coat. “Did you eat?”

“Yes.” He turned from the sight of the blood pulsing beneath her fair skin. “Was your day pleasant?”

She laughed. “Where did you learn to small talk, Dorian? Oh, never mind. I’m no good at it, either.” She sprawled on the sofa, kicking off her pumps with a groan of appreciation. “I’ve been thinking about how to get you back into the world of the living. Today I found out that our night janitor is leaving for another job. I told Mrs. Frost—she’s the woman in charge of hiring support staff—that I knew of a perfect candidate to replace him. You.”

“I don’t understand.”

“What’s to understand? A job will get you off the streets. Unless you think that kind of work is beneath you.”

Dorian circled the room, his thoughts fogged with need. “No,” he said. “I…why should you trust me with a post at your newspaper?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“How much do you really know of me, Gwen?”

She sighed and pushed her hand through her hair, all the laughter gone from her eyes. “Okay. Let’s have it out here and now. What happened at the warehouse, Dorian? Whose blood did I find?”

So it comes, Dorian thought grimly. The chance to drive her away once and for all, or to commit myself to saving her from herself.

But the decision was already made. “The blood was mine,” he said. “I had an…altercation with several hooligans.”

“The warehouse looked as if an explosion had hit it.”

“Yes.”

“You obviously survived. Why did you try to kill yourself, Dorian?”

The time had come for a small part of the truth. “I am prone to regular intervals in which I find myself…drawn back to another time and place. During such intervals it is inadvisable for anyone to approach me with less than friendly intent.”

“Walter mentioned something about that. He called it a ‘mood.’”

“I fear he is too mild in his description.”

“How?”

“I am not rational at such times, Gwen. That is why I warned you away when we first met.”

“I remember.” The look in her eyes told him that she had no trouble recalling how he’d behaved after he’d saved her from the river. “You didn’t hurt me, and you never hurt Walter, either.”