Dorian should have stopped it then and there.
He should have put on his bloodstained shirt and left the hotel room until his mind was clear.
But Gwen didnât let go. She tucked her forehead into the hollow of his shoulder, exposing the pale, elegant length of her neck beneath red curls. Dorianâs mouth flooded with saliva and the chemicals that would numb her to his bite, to everything but the blissful pleasure he would give in exchange for her sweet blood.
He lowered his head and kissed her vulnerable skin. She trembled. He bit gently. She flinched and relaxed as the chemicals did their work, her body softening in his arms.
HIS HANDS WERE stained with blood.
Dorian ran blindly through the woods, the inside of his head roaring with emptiness. Branches tore at his clothing and scraped at his skin. Bloody scratches streaked his flesh, closing before he could run another hundred paces. He felt no pain. He felt nothing except the disintegration of his mind.
Raoul was dead.
The gun had become part of Dorianâs hand, metal seared into his palm like a brand.
Raoul was dead, and there was no undoing it.
He didnât know how far he traveled before he came to himself again. He stopped at the edge of a small human town, somnolent in the warm summer sun. People stared as he walked down the main street, a man bundled up in ragged clothing and mudstained shoes. One good Samaritan, a middle-aged man with deep laugh lines around his eyes and work-roughened hands, called to Dorian as he passed by.
âAre you all right, mister?â he asked. âNeed some help?â
Dorian turned to look at the human, hardly comprehending the offer. No one had ever asked such a question of him before. But when he met the manâs gaze, the human flinched, backed away and quickly left Dorian to himself.
So it had always been. They were always afraid.
With that grim knowledge, Dorianâs sense returned. He found a twenty-dollar bill in his wallet and walked to the townâs tiny bus terminal. No one on the bus would meet his eyes. He sat quietly in his seat until the bus arrived in Manhattan. He got off and began to walk again, letting his feet carry him where they chose.
He could not go home. There was no home with Raoul dead and the clan in shambles.
How he came to the East River, he never did remember. The waterfront was raucous with human activity, heavy with the smells of oil and sweat and stagnant water. Dorian drifted alongside the river, looking down at the greasy black surface.
It was hard to kill a vampire. It was even harder for a vampire to kill himself. But Dorian had never lacked will.
He stood on the edge of the pier, the toes of his shoes hanging over the edge. One more step was all it would take.
âI wouldnât do that if I was you.â
The old man came up behind Dorian, favoring a gimpy leg and squinting through a nest of wrinkles. He was lean as an old hound, dressed in a motley collection of rags.
And he wasnât afraid.
âIt canât be as bad as all that,â the man said, offering a smile that was missing several teeth. âNever is.â He shoved his hands in his torn pockets. âEveryoneâs down on their luck now and then. Thatâs why folks like us got to stick together.â
Dorian stared at the man. The man stared back.
âNameâs Walter. Walter Brenner.â He thrust out his hand. Dorian hesitated. No human had ever done that before, either.
âI ainât got no diseases, if thatâs what youâre scared of,â Brenner said. âBut I do have a little food, if youâre hungry. And a place to sleep, at least for tonight. Then you can decide whatâs best to do. Things always look better in the morning.â
Slowly Dorian took the gnarled and knotted hand. âDorian,â he said. âDorian Black.â
âWell, Dorian Black, youâd better come along with me. Thatâs a good lad. Olâ Walter will take care of you.â
Dorian went. There was nothing else to do.
He was free, but his life was over.
October 1926, New York City
THE BLACK SUCKING water closed over her head. She flailed blindly, her arms and legs as heavy and inert as logs. Red light flashed violently behind her eyes; she couldnât think, couldnât do anything but cling to the instinct that kept her from opening her mouth and swallowing the vile brew that swirled around her.
Is this what itâs like to die?
The thought came and went in a moment of lucidity that vanished before she could grasp it. She sank, her muscles no longer obeying the weak commands of her brain. A fish, goggle-eyed, paused to examine her in astonishment and then disappeared into the sable depths. Her lungs began to burn.