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.”
“Let me be the judge of that.” She wrapped up the remaining cheese and meat, tucking it back in the basket. “You attended college. You worked in a position that required both skill and intelligence.”
A sense of fatalism washed over Dorian. Gwen Murphy wouldn’t give up. He couldn’t force her to leave without resorting to violence, and he was already too close to losing all control.
“I didn’t attend college,” he said, setting down his glass. “I was born in Hell’s Kitchen. I went to public school until I was ten. Then I went to work in a factory. There wasn’t any time or money for higher education.”
Gwen gazed at him, a sandwich halfway to her mouth. “Well,” she said at last, “that’s definitely one of the longest speeches you’ve made since we met.”
“I trust it assuages your curiosity.”
“Not really. It doesn’t explain why a kid from Hell’s Kitchen uses words like ‘assuage’ in casual conversation.”
Dorian found himself studying the delicate arch of her brows and the curve of her forehead. “It is possible to learn without formal instruction. There are such things as public libraries, Miss Murphy.”
“Is that how you did it? You’re self-taught?”
He shrugged, carefully looking away from her face. She finished her sandwich, brushed off her skirt and rose. “Are those books I see there?” Without waiting for his answer, she stepped over him and bent to pick up one of the volumes he’d arranged on a plank against the wall.
“Frankenstein,” she said, cradling the battered volume. “You enjoy the classics, Mr. Black?”
“Occasionally.”
“It’s a sad story. Both the creator and the created are ultimately destroyed.”
“Is that so surprising, Miss Murphy, when the creator chose to set himself up as a god?”
She smiled at him. “So you’re a philosopher as well as an autodidact.”
“You seem to share my predilection for long words, Miss Murphy.”
“Writing for a newspaper doesn’t allow me to use them very often. I used to read the dictionary when I was a kid.”
Dorian felt a jolt of surprise, remembering the discarded dictionary, its pages moldy and torn, that he’d found left in a rubbish heap outside his family’s tenement. He’d made himself learn at least two new words every day, practicing their pronunciation with care. His father had laughed at him.
Won’t do you no good, boy. You’ll never amount to anything. Not as long as you live…
Dorian’s father had had no idea just how long that would be.
“What else do we have here?” Gwen said, sliding the book back in place and picking up another. “Dante’s Inferno. You don’t go in for light reading, do you?”
“I’m devastated that you disapprove.”
“No. It’s not that.” She tapped the book’s spine against her chin. “Do you believe in eternal punishment, Mr. Black?”
“Do you, Miss Murphy?”
She touched the cross hanging from a silver chain around her neck. “I believe in the possibility of redemption.”
The tightness Dorian had felt earlier returned, squeezing his heart beneath his ribs. “Some souls cannot be redeemed.”
“Are you speaking of yourself?” Her eyes were penetrating, ruthless in their understanding. “What happened, Dorian? Why do you think you deserve to suffer?”
He got to his feet, his mouth almost too dry for speech. “You assume too much.”
“I can see that you’re punishing yourself by living in this place, refusing human company, hardly eating. Is caring for Walter the only thing that keeps you alive?”
Dorian closed his eyes. He could feel it coming. Total darkness, a time when most strigoi walked freely and celebrated their power.
For him, it was a kind of death. A temporary death that never quite took him but let him survive to despise himself yet another day.
Oh, yes. He believed in hell.
“It can’t be as bad as you think,” she said.
Suddenly she was beside him, her warmth caressing his cold skin, her breath soft in his ears. “You found your way out of Hell’s Kitchen. You made something of yourself, didn’t you? But you took a wrong turn somewhere. And now you don’t think you can get back again.”
It took all his self-discipline to keep from responding to the thrum of the blood in her veins, the fragrance of her body that told him she was ripe for the taking.
“Did it never occur to you,” he said softly, “that I am not quite sane?”
“You mean because of what happened yesterday?”
He leaned away from her. “Yes.”
“If you’d really wanted to hurt me, you’ve had plenty of chances to do it.” Her implacable voice battered him like a hail of bullets. “Whatever you may have done, whatever you experienced, you want to make it right. But first you have to go back out into the world and face both it and yourself.”
The muscles in Dorian’s body slackened. Somehow he kept his feet. “Where did you acquire such faith in your fellow man?” he whispered.
“From my dad. He saw a lot of horrible things in his days as a newsman, but he never lost his belief in the essential goodness of humanity.”
Humanity. But I am not human. I can never be again.
With exaggerated gentleness, he took the book from Gwen’s hands. “Do you make a habit of attempting to save every vagrant you meet?”
“I’m not that good.” She picked up the basket. “Shall we take this to Walter?”
Dorian was greatly relieved by the change of subject. “He wasn’t feeling well earlier this afternoon. If you would leave the basket with me…”
“Of course. Is there anything I can do?”
“No. An old man is prone to ailments. He will recover.”
The warmth in her eyes increased. “Do you make a habit of attempting to save every vagrant you meet? Most people wouldn’t bother with a homeless old man.”
“Why do you bother with me?”
His question caught her at a rare loss for words. She tugged at the hem of her jacket. “Is it too shocking to say that I like you?”
“You have no reason to like me.”
“Do I have to have one?”
“I fear for your judgment, Miss Murphy.”
“Let me worry about that.” She pushed russet curls away from her forehead. “I’d like to stay, but I have an appointment this evening. I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon with some clothes and a few other things you might be able to use.”
All the cold-bloodedness that had served Dorian so well in his work for Raoul, all the dispassion he had deliberately