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“And then I learned to live with what I am. My parents taught me how to feed without killing, how to move among humans without detection. It was strange, like learning to be human all over again. Pretending to be human.” I give him a sad smile. “They wanted me to stay in Salem, where it was safe, where they could protect me. But I wanted more. I wanted to sing. To see the world. So I came to Los Angeles, just like everyone else does.”

“Where you met Elizabeth,” he says softly.

“Yes. Where I met Betty.” I push away from the railing, needing movement. “That’s why we have to find these Ivanovs.See if they’re behind the killings. We have to do it for her. For all their victims. We have to find the truth.”

“And if it turns out I’m her killer?” he asks.

I step closer to him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. “Please. Stop. You’re not. I know you. The real you. Not just the detective, not just the vampire, but the man beneath it all. The man who killed Marco because of how he treated me, the same man who shot dead others who hurt me. A man who would protect me against all odds. That man couldn’t have planned and executed these sick, ritual murders.”

He doesn’t move away, but I see the struggle in his eyes—wanting to believe, afraid to hope. “You can’t know that for certain.”

“I can. I do.” I reach up, my fingers hovering just shy of his face, not quite touching. “Let me show you who you really are.”

His breathing quickens as I close the remaining distance, my hand cupping his cheek. His skin is warm beneath my palm, the stubble rough against my fingers. I lean in slowly, giving him time to pull away.

He doesn’t.

My lips brush his, tentative at first, then with growing confidence as he responds. I can taste the wine on his tongue, feel the restrained power in the arms that cautiously encircle my waist. My body thrums, wanting, needing to be held. For a moment, everything else falls away. There is only this connection, this recognition of kindred spirits finding each other in the darkness.

Then he stiffens, abruptly pulling back. His face contorts in desire and fear.

“I can’t,” he whispers, voice ragged, his gaze averting mine. “I can’t risk losing control. Not with you. Not now.”

The rejection stings more than it should. “You won’t hurt me, Callahan. I’m not human. I’m stronger than you think. Youshould know that by now.” I pause. “The other night when you paid me a visit, you were rough and you weren’t yourself but you never hurt me.”

He steps away, putting distance between us. “It’s not just about hurting you. It’s about what happens if I let that part of myself fully emerge—what if being with you brings it out? And what if I can’t go back? What if I lose whatever humanity I have left?”

My heart sinks, seeing how desperately he’s clinging to the identity he’s known all his life, the fear of fully embracing what he truly is. And beneath that, the terror that if he allows himself to want me, to have me, the ultimate loss of control, that it will somehow complete his transformation.

“You don’t have to lose yourself to find yourself,” I tell him, but I can see my words aren’t reaching him. They bounce off him as if he’s made of steel.

“I need time,” he says, not meeting my eyes. “To process all of this. To figure out who—what—I am now.”

I nod, though disappointment settles cold and heavy in my chest. “Of course.”

He sets down his empty wine glass on the small table between the lounge chairs. “I should get some rest. Abe offered me the guest room at the end of the hall.”

I see. He won’t be sleeping in my bed tonight, that’s what he’s telling me. I swallow hard.

“Goodnight, then,” I say, keeping my voice neutral despite the tangle of emotions within.

He pauses at the door, looking back at me. For a moment, I think he might change his mind, might return to my arms, might tell me to join him in his bed or offer to be in mine. Instead, he simply says, “Goodnight, Lena,” and disappears into the house.

I remain on the balcony long after he’s gone, the fog thickening around me until I’m wrapped in a cocoon of silenceand gray. Eventually, I return inside, spending what remains of the night in restless contemplation of what might have been.

Morning bringsa layer of fog over the ocean with clear skies and weak, pale sunshine above that does little to warm the chill I feel. I dress quickly, eager to find Callahan, to continue our conversation from the night before. Perhaps in daylight, his fears will seem less overwhelming. Perhaps while he’s slept, he’s started to embrace his true nature and come to terms with what it means.

But when I enter the kitchen, I find only Abe in a plush robe, sipping his English breakfast tea at the marble-topped island.

“Good morning,” he says, his accent more pronounced in the early hours. “Sleep well?”

“Where’s Callahan?” I ask, ignoring his question.

Abe’s expression tells me everything before he speaks. “He left about an hour ago. Said he needed to follow up on a lead at the police station.”

“And you just let him go?” I can’t keep the accusation from my voice.

“He’s not a prisoner, Lena,” Abe says mildly. “He has his own free will.”