Susan Krinard - Dark of the Moon

“No good.” Thick, dark blood trickled from his mouth. “I’m…no good for anyone.”

Oh, God. Tears spilled over her cheeks. “You’re good for me,” she whispered.

His eyes rolled up beneath his lids, and he fell back. Gwen dropped to her knees and laid her head on his chest. His heartbeat had slowed to an irregular tap, like water dripping from a leaky faucet.

“Whatever you did,” she said, “it isn’t worth this. Please, Dorian.”

She felt his hand on her hair. “Goodbye.”

He took one breath, another. His chest ceased to move under her cheek. His heart stopped.

“No!” Gwen sat up and thumped on Dorian’s ribs with her fists. Nothing. The tears were falling so thick and fast that she could hardly see him. She shook him, heedless of the raw skin beneath his torn shirt. She shouted until her voice was hoarse and her tongue like a roll of cotton wadding.

Nothing she did made any difference.

Gwen stretched out across his body, gasping with shock and grief. She pressed her cheek to his. She closed her eyes and willed herself to pretend. Pretend that he was still alive, that they were lying side by side in some peaceful place, awakening to shafts of sunlight streaming over the bedcovers.

A tickle of sensation stroked her neck. She shifted, aware of a peculiar prick of pain there at the juncture of her shoulder. It was gone as quickly as it had come, replaced by heat and a feeling of pleasure that spread through her body. Her grief began to slide away from her, dissipating into a mist of peace.

“Gwen.”

She sighed and stretched, pleasant lassitude feeding her delusion that Dorian was speaking. If this was a dream, let it continue. Let her pretend she felt his arms cradling her head, his pulse beating strong again, his hands touching her hair.

“I’m here, Gwen.”

Slowly the veil of tranquillity fell away from her eyes. She found herself staring at a wall covered in graffiti and unidentifiable stains. The surface beneath her was firm and unyielding.

Dorian’s body was gone.

She sat up, acid burning a trail down her throat. Hands grasped her arms from behind. She swung around on her knees, fists clenched.

“Gwen,” Dorian said, his eyes clear as bright water. “It’s all right.”

Her heart stuttered to a halt. “You—oh, my God—”

“Yes.” He cupped her cheek in his palm. She stared, unable to comprehend the transformation. His face was still gaunt, his skin deeply lined. But the bloody slashes were gone; his gaze was steady, and his voice, oh, his voice…

“I did not wish to be saved,” he said, “but you saved me nevertheless.”

All the strength drained out of Gwen’s legs. Dorian eased her to the pockmarked floor. He was extraordinarily gentle, more so than he’d ever been with her before. But his gaze was filled with sorrow.

“You were dying,” Gwen said, stumbling over the words. “I saw—”

“Yes,” he said again. “It is possible for the body to appear bereft of life when it continues to function.”

Gwen was in no state to argue. She stiffened her spine, afraid she would throw herself into his arms in a display that would embarrass both of them.

“Tell me,” she said. “Tell me why. Why you ran away. Why you let yourself…” The lump in her throat threatened to melt into more treacherous tears. “What was so terrible that you couldn’t bear to go on living?”

His hands fell from her shoulders. “You would wish me dead if you knew.”

“You idiot.” She laughed, half-crazy with relief. “I could never hate you.”

“You are not at all sensible, Miss Murphy.”

“Oh…Gwen, Gwen, for God’s sake.” She grabbed his hands, stroking her fingers across the veins and tendons that stood out beneath the skin. “Tell me. Get it off your chest before you—”

She realized that he was staring at her lips, a muscle ticking at the corner of his mouth. She pulled away.

“I’m not going to insist,” she said, “not after what you’ve just been through. About that ambulance…”

His sharp glance silenced her on that subject. “All right,” she said. “But you’ve got to see a doctor.”

He shook his head, and she knew this was a battle she couldn’t win. “In that case, you’re coming back to my apartment,” she said. “You’re going to stay in bed until you’re fully recovered.”

“That would not be at all wise.”

“Sure. I’ve heard it all before.” She got up, tested her legs, and debated how best to get him on his feet. “I’d carry you if I could, but that’s obviously not an option.”

He laid his hands flat on the floor and pushed. He failed in his first attempt, but when Gwen grabbed him under his arm, he was finally able to stand.

“Slowly,” she said. “There’s no rush.”

Dorian allowed her to steer him toward the door but stopped on the threshold.

“What time is it?”

“Why does that…Oh, of course. Your sensitivity to sunlight.” She checked her watch. “It should be just about dark by now.”

He didn’t move. “Think, Gwen. Consider what you’re doing.”

“I have.” She took a firmer grip on his arm and supported him along the corridor, feeling her way, dodging rats and cockroaches that had emerged with the coming of night. When she stumbled over a pile of abandoned furniture, Dorian took the lead, though his pace was still carefully measured.

The night air, even in a place like Hell’s Kitchen, was sweet compared to the close, decaying atmosphere inside the condemned building. There were no taxis in the area, so Gwen half carried Dorian in the direction of Midtown. A few hooligans, seeing a woman and a crippled man, attempted to harass them, but Dorian turned his stare on the boys and they quickly absconded.

After a good half mile, Gwen spotted a taxi and managed to get the cabbie’s attention. She settled Dorian beside her in the backseat and braced him against the driver’s reckless speed and sudden turns until they were safely in front of her apartment building. She got out and assisted Dorian from the cab.

“You need help, lady?” the cabbie asked, examining Dorian with a frown.

“I can manage, thanks.” Gwen felt Dorian lean more heavily on her arm and knew he was at the end of his strength. With a last, determined effort, she hauled him up two flights of stairs to her door. She fumbled with the key, pushed the door open with her foot, and tugged Dorian through the tiny living room and into her bedroom.

Dorian made no protest as she dropped him onto the bed. He was breathing deeply, and his skin was very pale; fresh worry blossomed in her chest.

“You just stay right there and rest,” she said. “I’ll get something for you to drink, and a little food.”

He opened one bloodshot eye. “Water,” he said. “No food.”

“All right. But you’ll have to eat sooner or later.” Reluctantly she left him and hurried to the kitchen. Plain water hardly seemed enough. She settled on making him a cup of weak tea instead, and placed a half-dozen soda crackers on the saucer.

When she returned to the bedroom he seemed to be asleep, but his eyes were wide open and she had the uncanny impression that he really wasn’t sleeping at all. She set the teacup down and stood over the bed.

“Dorian?”

He didn’t respond. Once again Gwen considered calling a doctor, but she decided to wait a while and see how well he did on his own. He’d already made a miraculous recovery.

“I’ll have to get you out of those clothes,” she said, watching his face. Still nothing. Doing her best not to disturb him, she knelt and began to unbutton his shirt. It was stiff with blood and sweat, but she was finally able to ease it off his shoulders. Dorian didn’t stir, even when she lifted his head from the pillow. She threw the shirt into the corner of the room and paused to look for injuries.