turned away from the light. The fate of New York’s strigoi was no longer any of his concern. His own life had become a weary succession of nights spent hunting just enough to keep his body functioning, days crouched in his fetid den with nothing but the company of an old man who had no idea who or what he was. Only the instinct for survival, a vampire’s deepest and most powerful impulse, had kept him from letting his body fade into oblivion.
But now there was something else. Something he hadn’t expected. Something that had started when he’d seen the girl sinking beneath the river’s surface and had made the decision to save a human life.
Gwen Murphy. She should have meant nothing more to him than what humans called a “good deed,” an act that made not the slightest dent in the vast weight of guilt accumulated over three quarters of a century.
Dorian rubbed at his face, feeling the raw bones of his cheek and jaw. He still had no clear understanding of what had happened, what unfamiliar impulse had led him to bring her here and watch over her until she could take care of herself. It hadn’t been a simple hunger; he hadn’t even been thinking of feeding when he’d rescued her. Nor had it been the troubling attraction with which he found himself struggling now.
If Miss Murphy had collapsed into a hysterical heap on the boardwalk after he’d pulled her from the river, he might have dismissed her. Old habits were slow to die, and he had no more need for human companionship than he did for that of his own kind.
But Gwen hadn’t collapsed. She’d gamely accepted what had been done to her, and if it hadn’t been for her body’s very human weakness, she would have gone on as if nothing had happened.
That had made all the difference. Her courage had awakened Dorian’s emotions as nothing had done since he’d held a gun in his hand and put an end to an evil few mortals could comprehend. Her refusal to surrender to fear had reminded him of the only other woman who had been capable of touching his heart.
Dorian returned to his corner, carefully restacked the crates and sank down against the wall. Of course he’d realized his mistake as soon as she’d started to ask questions, to behave as if his heedless act had created some sort of bond between them. He had tried to get rid of her even before his vague admiration had begun to give way to a reaction far more insidious: a growing awareness of her piquant beauty, the scent of her skin, the allure of her femininity.
If the sensation had been only the natural hunger for her blood, he could have assuaged it quickly and sent Miss Murphy away none the wiser, as he had a thousand other humans. But he’d wanted her with a dangerous insanity that became more deadly when he’d recognized how easily he could hurt her, how thin was the line between physical lust and violence.
He didn’t want to hurt her. He didn’t want the responsibility for what she might feel if she looked beyond her noble determination to help him and discovered that he desired her, even in the most human sense of the word.
Their relationship would never advance so far. There would be no relationship, no feelings, no joining in any sense of the word. If she came back…
“Penny for your thoughts.”
Walter ambled into the room and crouched next to Dorian, a half-empty whiskey bottle dangling from his hand. “Don’t tell me,” he said. “I can guess. She’s quite a peach, ain’t she?”
Dorian sighed. There wasn’t any point in reasoning with Walter. For all his easy nature, he was as irrational as any other human. In fact, he was worse than most. He saw everything through a prism of optimism and goodwill.
“She is an unusual woman,” Dorian admitted, resigned to an awkward conversation. “I would like to think that she won’t venture here again without a proper escort.”
“Ha,” Walter snorted. “You don’t know women, Dory. Though I never could understand how a man like you could turn out so ignorant of the fair sex.” He scratched his shoulder. “You’d better get used to the fact that she’s taken a shine to you.”
“I doubt that her interest will be of long duration.”
“Saving someone’s life tends to make a body grateful.”
“I made it clear that I don’t desire her gratitude.”
“You just can’t tell someone what to feel, Dory. Did you ever consider she might do you some good?”
“I would hardly wish to save her life only to ruin it.”
“Your problem is that you don’t have any faith in yourself. Just because you have a problem don’t mean it ain’t fixable. Maybe all you need’s a little encouragement.”
“I get plenty of that from you.”
“It ain’t enough. She’s the type you’d listen to. She’s brave and smart. I’m just an ignorant old man.”
And as harmless as a scorpion, Dorian thought. “Perhaps I won’t be here when she comes back.”
Walter got to his feet. “Oh, you’ll be here. You got nowhere else to go.” He took a swig from the bottle, offered it to Dorian as he always did, and shrugged when Dorian refused. His walk was a little unsteady as he returned to his own dark corner.
A muffled silence fell in the warehouse. It was empty now except for Dorian and Walter; other men came and went, but most felt uneasy in Dorian’s presence even when he was perfectly sane. They moved on after a few weeks, leaving him to his welcome solitude.
Solitude he could only pray Gwen Murphy would never break again.
THE CITY ROOM WAS busy when Gwen arrived, as it was at almost any time of day. Reporters at their desks shouted into telephone receivers or punched at typewriters, pencils tucked behind their ears. Eager copy boys rushed back and forth doing errands and carrying messages for their superiors. Mr. Spellman, red in the face, was gesticulating at an assistant editor behind the glass walls of his office.
It was all comfortingly familiar. No one had noticed her arrival. Mitch wasn’t at his desk, but then again, he seldom was. He preferred legwork to the labor of composition. Gwen waved at one of the friendlier reporters and left the city room for the small office to which she and the less privileged employees were relegated.
Lavinia was filing her nails, watching the melée across the hall with a vaguely amused expression on her long face. She caught sight of Gwen and waggled her fingers. Gwen wound her way between the desks to Lavinia’s quiet corner and fell into a chair.
“What is it, honey?” Lavinia said, subjecting Gwen to a pointed inspection. “You look like something the cat dragged in.”
Gwen laughed. “That’s exactly what I feel like.”
And that was putting it mildly. She could still taste river water and feel it in her hair, in spite of a quick bath and change of clothes. In the taxi back to the office she’d gotten the shakes, finally realizing how close she’d come to death.
“That bad, huh?” Lavinia said. She offered Gwen a cigarette. “Take this, honey. It’ll make you feel better.”
“Thanks, Vinnie, but you know I don’t smoke.”
“Pity.” Lavinia lit her own cigarette and took a drag. “Where have you been all day? I was beginning to worry.”
“You know I went down to the waterfront—”
“In spite of Spellman’s lecture about sticking to your own beat.”
“The society pages are your bailiwick, not mine.”
“You mean they aren’t good enough for you. No, I’m not scolding. It’s boring as hell, even for an old lady like me.”
Gwen planted her elbow on the desk and leaned her chin in her palm. “No one does it better than you, Vinnie.”
“Sure.” The older woman stubbed out her cigarette. “So how did it all come out?”
“My