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“Or until Spellman kicks you out.” Vinnie gave a lopsided smile. “Keep your secrets. I’ll find them all out eventually.”
“I know you will, Vinnie.” She got up. “Listen, I’ve got some research to do. Let’s plan on lunch sometime soon.”
“You just let me know, honey.”
“See you then.” Gwen pushed the chair back in place and walked across the office to her desk. It was every bit as cluttered as any of the men’s, with only a small debris-free space around a framed photo of Eamon Murphy perched on the corner.
Tossing her pocketbook on a precarious stack of papers, Gwen sat on her hard chair and glanced at the headlines of the late edition that had been left on her desk. More on the Ross Kavanagh trial. Gwen shook her head. Dad had always said that Kavanagh was one of the few good cops in Manhattan. He’d been handed a raw deal for sure. There was no doubt in Gwen’s mind that he’d been framed for the murder of Councillor Hinckley’s mistress, almost certainly because he hadn’t agreed to play along with the corrupt administration.
Well, there was nothing she could do about that but pray for Kavanagh’s acquittal. She shoved the paper aside, settled deeper into her chair and opened the desk drawer. Inside were Eamon’s clippings, articles and notes carefully preserved by her father during his long years at the paper. She glanced around, pulled out a folder and opened it, holding it half-hidden in her lap.
Brown-edged newsprint crackled between Gwen’s fingers. The story had been buried in the back pages of the morning edition on June 5, 1924. A man had stumbled into a hospital, badly injured and mumbling about crazy people who drank blood. He’d died not long after. No one had bothered following up on the man’s bizarre claims.
The rest of the articles and clippings were in a similar vein. Stories about strange murders attributed to certain notorious gangs. Interviews with witnesses who’d seen or heard things no one in their right mind would believe. Paragraphs gleaned from every newspaper in New York, most of them meaningless to anyone who didn’t know their collector’s particular interest.
By the end, everyone at the Sentinel had known something was wrong with Eamon Murphy. He’d lost his edge. He was distracted, late with his assignments, always shuffling papers he wouldn’t let anyone else see. Spellman had called him in for a long talk, but nothing changed. Eamon Murphy was a man obsessed.
“If something happens to me,” he’d told Gwen, “don’t let an old man’s fixations end your career before it’s begun. Find your own stories, Gwennie. You’re as good a newsman as I’ll ever be. It’s what you’ve always wanted.”
He’d been right. She’d dreamed of becoming a reporter ever since her fourteenth birthday, when her father had brought her to the Sentinel offices. There hadn’t been a single woman reporter there at the time, but that didn’t worry Gwen. She’d gone to college, absorbing every available course in writing and journalism. She’d spent hours composing mock stories on her second-hand Remington, and applied for dozens of jobs.
No one had hired her. But Dad wasn’t about to let his daughter’s dream die. Two weeks after Eamon’s death, Spellman had offered Gwen a position as a cub reporter. Sure, her assignments had been the ones every man in the office considered unworthy of his attention, but she’d clung to the memory of her father’s encouragement, his unwavering belief in her abilities. She’d continued to study and observe. And when the three bodies had been found on the waterfront, every one of them drained of blood, she’d gone back to his files and read them all over again.
I’m sorry, Dad, but I can’t let this go. If it was important to you, it’s important to me. And I’m going to find the answers.
“I see you’re back from the beauty shop, Miss Murphy.”
Randolph Hewitt’s booming voice swept over Gwen like a foghorn.
She turned slowly in her chair and smiled sweetly. “Why, Mr. Hewitt. I see you’re back from the Dark Ages.”
Her chief rival’s mocking grin lost a little of its joviality. “Very funny, Murphy.” He shifted his bulk forward, hovering over her desk. “What have we here? More of your father’s crazy theories?”
Gwen shoved the clippings back in the drawer and slammed it shut. “You can rag me all you want, Hewitt, but leave my dad out of it.”
Hewitt held up both hands. “Pull in your claws, missy. I had the utmost respect for your father.”
“Sure you did—until you saw a way to stick a knife in his back.”
“Such intemperate accusations. I believe you’ve picked up some very bad habits, Miss Murphy.” He shook his head. “It would seem to be an unfortunate consequence of a woman attempting to compete in a man’s world.”
Gwen stood up, knocking a stack of papers onto the floor. “I don’t consider you competition, Hewitt.”
The reporter’s belly jiggled with his laughter. “I wouldn’t want to shatter your illusions.” His round face hardened. “Just remember what Spellman said. Keep your pretty hands off my story.”
He sauntered away, clearly satisfied with his part in the exchange. Gwen fumed silently. It didn’t do any good to lose her temper; Hewitt only viewed such lack of control as further evidence of a woman’s natural weaknesses. If she was going to prove him wrong, she would have to stay cool and use her head.
She picked up her father’s photo. I could really use your advice, Dad.
His face, darkened by the sun, smiled back at her. There’ll be times you’ll want to quit, he’d said. It isn’t an easy job, even for a man. But you’ll do just fine. And someday you’ll find a fellow who recognizes all the fine qualities you inherited from your mother. Just don’t settle for less, Gwennie.
Dad had guardedly approved of Mitch, who’d come to work at the Sentinel a year before Eamon’s death. He hadn’t objected when Mitch started pursuing his daughter.
Gwen set down the photograph. It had almost slipped her mind that Mitch was taking her to dinner tomorrow night. She felt more resignation than anticipation at the prospect. She didn’t feel any differently than she had months or weeks ago. Mitch was a good friend, but she wasn’t ready to marry a man she wasn’t sure she loved.
With a sigh, she began work on the inconsequential stories Spellman had assigned to her. She would do her best with them, as she always did. They wouldn’t have any excuse to discharge her. And when she could prove her father’s story, they would know she was truly worthy to compete in a man’s world.
Tomorrow she would go see Dorian Black again. The thought absurdly cheered her. Even if he couldn’t help her with the murders, her reporter’s instincts told her that his story might be well worth the telling.
And as for those “nasty spells” that apparently afflicted him every few weeks, she would just remember to watch her step.
THE BELT SLAPPED against Sammael’s back for the twentieth time. His flesh quivered in protests, but Sammael welcomed the pain. He raised the scourge again and brought it down with all his strength.
Forgive me, he prayed. Forgive me for my foolishness, my overweening pride. You have set me a test, and I have faltered. Let me earn Your favor once again.
He counted out another nine beats and let the belt fall, working the knots from his hands. His back was on fire…the holy fire, the promise of redemption that would come only with pain and blood. He got slowly to his feet and moved to the basin in his tiny cell, splashing water on his face. His back he would leave untouched. There would be neither scabs nor scars in the morning.
Tomorrow he would begin all over again.
He shrugged on his shirt, leaving the collar undone, and sat at his desk. The book lay open before him, ready for amending. But as he lifted his pen, someone rapped on the door.
“Come,” he said.
The guard who entered was young and strong, as were all the new recruits…unquestioningly loyal to Sammael and the synod. He inclined his head to his master and stood at attention.
“We have a new report on the girl,” the younger man said. “She has been seen at the waterfront with one of Raoul’s former enforcers.”
“Indeed?” Sammael leaned back in his chair. “And which one would that be?”
“Dorian Black, my liege.”
“Ah, yes. I know of him. How did he and Miss Murphy come to be acquainted?”
“Our informers told us that he saved her from drowning.”
“How did this event occur?”
“She was assaulted. A number of young men were seen fleeing the pier.”
Sammael shook his head. “The Lord has said that humans must inherit the earth, no matter how unworthy they may seem to us.” He picked up his pen and rolled it between his fingers. “My impression of the enforcer was that he would not become involved with any human.”
“He took her to his kennel. She left unharmed.”
“He did not Convert her?”
“There was not enough time, and it was still daylight when she left.”
“Ah.” Sammael waved his hand. “As long as Black remains isolated, he is of no interest to us. But should he see the girl again…”
“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.”
