Dark of the Moon

“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.’”

CHAPTER THREE

DORIAN FELT HER EVEN before he moved to the door of the warehouse.

Gwen Murphy strode across the boardwalk, late afternoon sunlight striking sparks off her curly red hair. Over one arm she carried a basket overflowing with white linen. Her fair face was set with determination, as if she was preparing herself for a cool reception.

If Dorian had possessed any sense at all, he would have found a way to disappear. But dusk was several hours away, and he was not in the habit of retreating in the face of the enemy.

For she was the enemy, and he dared not let himself forget it.

He stepped back into the darkness to wait.

“Mr. Black?” Gwen’s heels tapped on the warehouse floor as she made her way toward Dorian’s corner. “Are you there?”

“Miss Murphy,” he said.

She jumped a little, startled by his sudden appearance. “Mr. Black. Dorian.” Her gaze met his, curious and briefly wary. Dorian observed that her lashes were a shade darker than her hair, perfectly framing her green eyes.

The treachery of his thoughts nearly undid him. He looked away from her, counting off all the arguments he had mustered yesterday morning.

They were nearly useless. Today he found himself entranced all over again, struggling against an overwhelming desire to touch her. To stroke her fiery hair. To feel the warmth of her full, expressive lips…

“I’ve brought a picnic,” Gwen said, shattering the spell. “It’s a little late for lunch, but—”

“You shouldn’t have come.”

“Why am I not surprised to hear you say that?” She smiled, the uneasy curve of her mouth betraying what he already realized was uncharacteristic self-consciousness. “Still, I’m here. And I’m not leaving until you eat some of this food.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“That I don’t believe. Walter says you hardly eat enough to keep a bird alive.”

“Yet here I am.”

She set down the basket and folded her arms across her chest. “Oh, how I adore a man of few words.” She held his stare. “You tried to scare me off yesterday, and it didn’t work. Nothing’s changed.”

He hardened his expression, beginning to feel the tightening in his body that warned of the madness to come. “You aren’t welcome here, Miss Murphy.”

“That’s never stopped me.” She hesitated, perhaps remembering how he had turned on her the day before, and then squared her shoulders. “You don’t want charity. I understand that. But it’s not just disinterested kindness on my part. I still have a hunch that you know more about those murders than you let on.”

“You’re mistaken.”

“Maybe. Let’s discuss it over a nice bottle of wine.” She bent over the basket and withdrew a bottle the color of blood, displaying it for his inspection. “I’m sure we can find a patch of ground outside to lay out our feast.”

Dorian withdrew a step, his gaze moving to the open warehouse door. “I prefer to remain here.”

She released an explosive breath. “No wonder you’re so pale, hiding here in the dark. Sunlight will do you good.” She reached for his arm. “Come on.”

Her fingers grazed his sleeve. He raised his hand to strike out. The brave expression in her eyes stopped him cold.

It would be so easy to hurt her. So easy to sink his teeth into the soft flesh of her neck, taste the sweetness of her blood.

He staggered, his feet slipping out from underneath him. Gwen seized his arm and held on.

“That’s it,” she snapped. “If you won’t come outside, we’ll eat right here.” With surprising strength, she turned him about and half dragged him behind the crates that formed the walls of his room. Once he was safely seated on the floor, she went back for the basket. She set it down in front of him and sat beside him.

The smell of fresh bread, pungent cheese and savory meat rose from the basket as Gwen spread the white linen cloth on the floor and laid out the meal. Dorian’s stomach churned, rebelling against its enforced deprivation. No vampire could survive long without blood, no matter what other forms of nourishment he might take. But since the blood enabled strigoi to digest human food, most ate on a regular basis.

“Walter,” he said hoarsely. “He needs this more than I do.”

“There’s plenty for both of you.” She sliced off a generous chunk of the bread, constructed a sandwich out of roast beef and thinly sliced cheese, and thrust it at Dorian. “Eat.”

Their fingers touched as he accepted the sandwich. He almost dropped it. Gwen pressed it into his hand. Once again their eyes met, and Dorian saw the sympathy and compassion she tried to conceal.

“It’s all right,” she said.

There was no more fighting the demands of his body. He took a bite, closing his eyes as the bread melted on his tongue. In seconds the sandwich was gone and Gwen was making another. While he ate, she used a corkscrew to open the wine and filled the two glasses that had been tucked in the bottom of the basket.

“It’s not the best,” she said, “but I hope you won’t find it too disappointing.”

Dorian took a glass, careful this time not to touch her, and stared into the dark red liquid. “What makes you think I would know the difference between good wine and poor?”

“You speak like an educated man.”

“That hardly proves anything.”

She looked at him over the rim of her glass. “Where did you attend school?”

The wine turned sour in his mouth. He swallowed it with difficulty.

“My past isn’t worthy of your interest, Miss Murphy.”