Page 10 of Nocturne

9

LENA

T he cold wakes me first.

One moment I’m deep in dreamless sleep, the next my eyes snap open, body tense with the instinctual awareness that something is wrong. The bedroom is pitch dark save for the red glow of the clock on my nightstand. 1:17 a.m.

My apartment is never cold—the ancient radiator beneath the window hisses and clanks through the night, keeping the space almost uncomfortably warm. Yet now my breath fogs in front of my face, visible even in the darkness. Impossible. I don’t feel cold the way humans do.

That’s when I suddenly know.

Someone is in my apartment.

I lie perfectly still, extending my senses beyond the bedroom door. The familiar creaks and settling sounds of the building continue their nighttime chorus, but beneath them is a different quality of silence.

The careful quiet of someone trying not to be heard.

A shadow passes beneath my bedroom door—a momentary darkening of the thin strip of space between door and floor.

Then gone.

Fuck me.

I slide silently from the bed, bare feet meeting the icy wooden floor. The temperature has dropped unnaturally, far beyond what the January night should cause in a heated apartment. This isn’t just an intruder. This is something else.

Listening intently, I move toward the door. Nothing. Not even the sound of breathing from the hallway beyond. I press my ear against the wood, straining my vampire hearing.

Silence.

Then I sniff quietly, smelling nothing out of the ordinary.

I ease the door open, peering into the darkened hallway. Empty. But the bathroom door at the end of the short corridor is closed, a thin line of shadow beneath it. I never close that door when I’m alone in the apartment.

Every instinct screams at me to flee, to use my speed and strength to escape whatever waits on the other side of that bathroom door.

And yet curiosity killed the cat.

I creep down the hallway, the floorboards mercifully silent beneath my careful steps. Outside the bathroom door, I pause, listening again. Nothing.

My hand closes around the doorknob. I turn it slowly.

Locked.

It’s locked .

How can that be? It has to be locked from the inside…

Oh, god, oh god.

I’m about to try the knob again when I glance down and gasp—a dark liquid is seeping beneath the door, spreading across the hallway floor in a widening pool. The metallic scent hits me immediately.

Blood.

Fresh blood.

My fangs descend involuntarily, the vampire hunger rising in response to the scent. I stumble back, fighting the dual response of terror and thirst.

What the hell is in my bathroom?

The blood continues to flow, impossibly copious, reaching toward my bare feet. I press myself against the opposite wall, heart hammering in my chest.

Then, without warning, the bathroom door swings open.

A scream dies in my throat, my heart threatening to break free of my ribs.

Empty.

It’s completely empty.

No blood. No intruder. Just my small, ordinary bathroom, exactly as I left it before going to bed.

I stare at the clean floor where, seconds ago, a pool of blood had been spreading. Nothing. Not even a trace of moisture.

What the hell is going on?

A soft sound from my bedroom spins me around. The whisper of fabric against furniture, the subtle shift of weight on floorboards.

I edge along the wall back toward it, keeping my back to the solid surface. I wished I had a gun. I never thought I needed one until now.

My bedroom is a maze of shadows from this angle, the faint glow of streetlights filtering through the window. The open window that I know I had closed before I went to sleep.

Movement by the window draws my eye.

I gasp.

A figure crosses from one shadow to another, too quickly to make out features, but unmistakably human in shape until it becomes the darkness again.

Then…

There’s no one.

The curtains by the window billow inward, dancing in a breeze that shouldn’t exist.

I approach it cautiously, coming to a stop when I nearly trip over the rug.

I stare down at the floor in horror.

The rug has been pulled away, the floorboards pried up.

I cry out softly and drop to my knees, thrusting my hand into the cavity and feeling for Elizabeth’s diary, but it’s gone. Everything else is there, all my jewels and cash, but not that.

Somehow, someone managed to not only get into my room but also find her hidden diary, all while I was distracted by blood in the bathroom.

I get to my feet, my hands at my chest, the terror hammering my heart, and slowly cross to the window. Looking out, I see the street three floors below, empty save for parked cars and pools of lamplight on wet pavement.

Then I spot him—across the street, a figure stands motionless in the shadows between buildings. Too far for human eyes to make out details, but my vision catches the momentary flare of a cigarette’s ember as the figure takes a drag and I can feel them watching my window with unnerving intensity.

The ember drops, crushed beneath a shoe. The figure melts back into the darkness.

I slam the window shut, locking it with shaking hands.

Someone was in my apartment.

Someone who knew exactly what to look for.

Someone who was able to get it all without me even seeing them.

None of this is possible.

I stumble to the phone, dialing with trembling fingers. It rings three times before a sleep-rough voice answers.

“Callahan.”

I open my mouth but no sound comes out. At least I know he wasn’t the one in my apartment.

“Hello?” Irritation edges into his tone. “Who is this?”

“It’s Lena.” My voice sounds strange to my own ears. “I…I need help.”

A pause, then the rustle of movement. “Are you hurt?”

“No. Not exactly.” How do I explain what just happened? “I just…can I see you? Now? I don’t want to be alone.” I nearly whisper the last part.

Another pause. I can almost hear him weighing professional boundaries against the urgency in my voice.

“Where are you?”

“My apartment.”

“Stay there. I’ll come to you.” The line clicks dead.

I sink onto the edge of the sofa, my nails digging into my palms. In four years as a vampire, I’ve encountered my share of the supernatural, but nothing like this. The blood that wasn’t there. The figure that moved like smoke. The way he knew where I hid it.

And now Elizabeth’s diary is gone—the only tangible connection I had not only to her, but to whatever got her killed.

Who—or what—was in my apartment?

And why didn’t they hurt me?

I know I probably should be calling up my friend Abe, he might be able to help me figure this out better than a human can. He casts a wide net over this city and has always watched over me here.

But right now it’s Callahan that I want.

By the time his car pulls up outside twenty minutes later, I’ve dressed and packed a small overnight bag. I don’t know where I’m going, but I can’t stay here. Not tonight, anyway.

I meet Callahan at the street door, stepping out before he can come in. He looks rumpled, like he threw on yesterday’s clothes, his dark hair mussed from sleep. Yet his eyes are sharp, alert, taking in my pale face and the bag clutched in my hand.

“What happened?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Not here. Can we go somewhere else? Please?”

He studies me for a moment, then nods, opening the passenger door of his car. “My office. It’s secure.”

The drive passes in silence. I’m aware of him glancing at me periodically, questions evident in his expression, but he doesn’t push. Instead, he navigates the empty pre-dawn streets with practiced ease, eventually pulling up to a nondescript building in a quiet business district.

Callahan’s office is on the second floor—a modest space with a tidily kept reception area that is shared with another office. He leads me through his door, flipping on a lamp that casts warm light over a worn leather couch, an armchair, a sturdy desk, and walls lined with filing cabinets.

“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the couch. “I’ll make coffee.”

I perch on the edge of the cushion, still feeling the chill from my encounter. The office smells of tobacco, old paper, and something distinctly male—Callahan’s scent, I realize. Under different circumstances, I might find it comforting.

He returns with two steaming mugs, placing one in my hands, then pulls out his desk chair and sits in it, facing me. “Now tell me what’s got you running scared at this hour.”

I wrap my fingers around the mug, letting its warmth seep into my skin. The coffee is strong and bitter, grounding me.

“Someone was in my apartment,” I say finally, not meeting his eyes.

He stiffens but his silence prompts me to continue.

“I woke up around one. The room was freezing. I…don’t normally get cold.” I risk a glance up. “I saw a shadow pass under my door.”

“A burglar?” His tone is neutral, professional, but his posture has subtly shifted—more alert, more protective.

“Not exactly.” I set my mug down, trying to organize the inexplicable into something coherent. “The bathroom door was locked from the inside. Then I saw blood coming from underneath it.”

His eyebrows lift slightly. “Blood?”

“When the door opened, there was nothing there. No blood. No person.” I run a hand through my hair, still disheveled from sleep. “I know how it sounds.”

“Like something from a ghost story,” he says, but his voice lacks skepticism. If anything, he sounds thoughtful.

“When I turned around, there was someone in my bedroom. From where I just came from. A shadow moving across the room. The window was open, it wasn’t before.” I meet his gaze directly. “They took her diary from where I hid it. They knew where it was.”

“So it’s gone?”

“It’s gone. And when I looked out, someone was watching me from across the street. Just standing there in the darkness, smoking.”

His posture stiffens again. “Could you identify them?”

“No. Just that it was a man.”

He seems to think that over, his black brows furrowing. “Did you tell anyone else about her diary, aside from me?”

“No. I didn’t tell anyone.” I meet his gaze. “Which means they’ve been watching me closer than I thought and…”

“And they searched your entire apartment while you were sleeping,” he finishes, his expression darkening, which makes a chill run down my spine. “Could that have been possible? Did you notice the floorboards when you first woke up?”

I try to think but I can’t recall. I’d been too spooked by what had been in the hall. “Maybe…maybe Elizabeth told someone else I had the diary.”

“Maybe she did. Either way, not your average burglar.”

“No.” I take a sip of coffee, using the moment to consider how much to reveal. Humans don’t believe in vampires until a vampire tells them the truth themselves. I don’t want to do that with Callahan. I promised my parents and the others that it would always remain a secret. That’s the way it has to be for us. The only way we can live in the world undetected.

And yet I think we might be dealing with something more than a murderer. Something much more dangerous. What I came across tonight couldn’t have been a mere human.

“There was something wrong about the whole thing. The impossible cold. The blood that wasn’t there. It felt…”

“Supernatural?” he suggests when I trail off.

I raise my brows at the use of that word. Most humans, especially practical ones like Callahan, avoid such terms. “Do you believe in that sort of thing?”

Something flickers in his eyes. “Not really. Though I have been going through something that is starting to push my limits of understanding.” He sets his mug down on his desk. “I’m having these blackouts, missing sections of time—sometimes I wake up in places with no memory of going there.” He pauses. “Outside your apartment building, for example.”

My breath catches. “When?”

“Few nights ago.” He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture I’m beginning to recognize as one of his rare displays of uncertainty. “I lost about ten hours. Just gone.”

“That’s concerning,” I say carefully. Very concerning. I wonder if I should tell him what I first thought when I was being followed outside The Lavender Room. That it was him stalking me down the streets. But after tonight I know that’s not possible. Whoever was stalking me is probably the same person who broke into my apartment. Besides, Callahan isn’t a vampire. I would know.

But…he is something, isn’t he?

“Have you seen a doctor?” I ask.

“Not yet.” He shakes his head, picking up his mug and having a sip. “Doctor would probably say it’s stress. Overwork. Not enough sleep.”

“Is that what you think it is?”

He’s quiet for a moment, staring into his coffee, dark arched brows furrowed together. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s finally catching up with me.”

“What is?” I prompt gently.

“The war. Catherine’s death.” His voice remains steady, but I see the tension in his jaw. “Grief does strange things to people. Makes them forget things, lose time. Sneaks up on you when you think you’re safe. So they say.”

“Who is Catherine?” I ask. “Your mother?”

“My wife.”

My heart stills for a moment, not expecting to hear that.

He glances at me and winces slightly. “I was married. She died.”

“Tell me about her,” I say, sensing he needs to talk about this, and I’m genuinely curious about the woman he was married to. “Tell me about Catherine.”

Callahan goes silent for a moment, rubbing his full lips together. “We met before the war, when I was a boxer. She was a nurse at Chicago Memorial where they patched me up after a bad fight.” A faint smile touches his lips. “Told me I was an idiot for getting in the ring in the first place. Naturally, I asked her to dinner.”

“Bold move. I like her.”

“You would. She turned me down the first three times.” The memory seems to soften him. “Catherine was…steady. The kind of person who knew exactly who she was and what she wanted. Never met anyone so certain about everything.”

Must be nice , I can’t help but think.

“You loved that about her,” I observe.

“More that I needed it.” He meets my gaze. “I was all over the place back then. Boxing, school, not sure what I was doing with my life. She anchored me.”

“What happened to her?”

His expression clouds. “Like everyone else, I went to go fight in the war. Got the telegram while I was in France. Pneumonia, they said. Swept through the hospital where she worked.” He swallows hard. “By the time I found out, she’d been buried for weeks. Never got to properly say goodbye.”

“I’m sorry,” I say softly. “That must have been terrible.”

Though I’m immortal and can’t die except under particular circumstances, circumstances only other vampires know, I know that no one is safe from the touch of death.

“It was a long time ago.” He shrugs, but the casual gesture doesn’t match the shadow that crosses his face. “Came back different and to a different life. We all did. Nothing has been the same. Started having trouble sleeping, concentrating. The Army doctors called it combat fatigue. I just thought it was grief, but I suppose that comes in all different forms.”

“And the blackouts? Did they start then?”

“No, that’s new.” He sets his mug down. “Started a few weeks ago. Around my birthday. Getting old is a real drag.” He pauses, a line forming between his brows. “Actually, around the time of Elizabeth’s murder.”

“You think they’re connected?” I ask, intrigued by the timing.

“Logically? No. But this case…” He shakes his head. “It feels different. Personal, somehow. Like I need to solve it to understand something about myself.” He gives a self-deprecating smile that I find breathtakingly handsome. “Sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud.”

“Not to me,” I assure him. “Sometimes we’re drawn to things for reasons we don’t understand.”

He studies me with renewed interest. “Speaking from experience?”

“Maybe.” I hesitate, then decide to shift the focus back to him. “Did you always want to be a detective?”

“Private investigator.”

“Right. But you’re still detecting stuff, aren’t you?”

He gives me a faint smile. “I suppose.”

“So? Did you always want to be a detective?”

“In a way. My adoptive father was a cop—probably influenced me more than I realized.” He adjusts himself in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight. “Always liked solving puzzles, figuring out why people do what they do.”

“Your adoptive father,” I repeat, curious. “Did you ever look for your birth parents?”

The question seems to catch him off guard. “Not seriously. Why?”

“Just curious.” I shrug. “Some people are driven to know where they came from.”

“The Callahans were good people. Gave me everything I needed.” He says it matter-of-factly, but I sense there’s more beneath the surface. “Though my father did mention once that the adoption agency said my birth parents had some rare medical condition. Nothing serious or contagious, just unusual. That’s why they gave me up.”

“Do you know what it was?”

“No details.” He gives me a curious look. “Why the interest in my family history?”

“Just trying to understand you better,” I say, which is true enough. “You know quite a bit about me from your investigation. Seems fair I should know something about you too.”

He acknowledges this with a slight nod. “Right. Well. I became a PI after the war because I needed work that kept me busy. Kept me from thinking too much. The blackouts, the insomnia—it’s probably just all that catching up with me finally.”

“Maybe,” I say, though I’m not convinced. There’s something about Callahan that doesn’t fit neatly into the box of traumatized war veteran .

Our eyes lock, and the air between us seems to thicken. I’m suddenly, intensely aware of his proximity, of the strong line of his jaw, of his mouth that looks both hard and soft at once. My breath hitches at the thought of it on my lips, of the heat flaring in my core, of this current of need and want that seems to build from within. He leans forward slightly, and I find myself mirroring the movement, drawn by something beyond physical attraction.

Is this fate? I can’t help but think as I find myself sliding toward him, my thoughts feeling muddy, my body seeming to move on its own accord. Is this inescapable?

The jarring ring of the telephone shatters the moment. My heart nearly jumps out of my skin.

Callahan hesitates, his nostrils flaring for a moment as his blue gaze locks on mine, then rises to answer it. “Callahan,” he says tersely. “Hello? Hello?”

He holds the phone away from his ear and seems to think. Then he presses down on the depressor before he dials zero and brings the phone back to his ear. “Yes, operator. The number that just called, there was no one on the line. Did they say anything to you? I’m afraid it could have been an emergency.” He pauses. “Oh? Alright. Thank you.”

He hangs up the phone and looks at me. “There was no one there. The operator said it was a male voice with an accent.”

I can’t help but yawn, the tension from earlier dissipating. “It’s the middle of the night. Maybe someone gave him the wrong number.”

He cocks a brow as if to say, do you believe that?

Of course, I don’t. But right now, I want to. Better than to think someone was following us. A lot of Marco and Cohen’s boys have accents. So do Europeans . Not sure which idea I like better.

“I think it’s best you get some shut-eye,” he says to me, gesturing to the couch while reaching for a cigarette.

“I don’t need to sleep,” I tell him. It helps us reset, it makes us feel better, but vampires can go indefinitely without it.

“Sure you do,” he says, his voice becoming gentler. He looks me over as he lights his cigarette, the flame igniting his eyes, making him look otherworldly for a moment. In that same moment I feel an inkling of fear, a creeping sensation at the base of my skull. The way he looks at me sometimes…

“Or don’t,” he says with a frown. “You alright?”

I give my head a small shake. No. Obviously not. One minute I’m listening to Callahan talk about his dead wife and war trauma, the next I’m afraid I might kiss him, and in the next I’m inexplicably afraid of him.

Maybe I do need sleep.

He takes a few steps over to me and stares down. Reaches for my chin and places his fingers under it, lifting my face up to meet his. A second stretches into infinity, the rough feel of his fingertips against my ageless skin seems to ignite something deep inside me, mixing together fear and lust into something potent.

I swallow uneasily but I keep his gaze.

His brows knit together, as if I’m some sort of puzzle placed in front of him. “You’re really something, you know that, dollface?”

“So I’ve been told,” I say, the words coming out in a whisper.

“I bet you have.”

Then he lets go and takes a step back, puffing on his cigarette. “So if you don’t want to sleep, then what do you want?”

There’s heat in his voice, something rough underneath the smooth exterior. A bit of his Chicago accent coming through.

“Something I can’t have.”

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Funny. You’re the type to get everything she wants.”

“Not quite.”

His eyes burn into mine, a muscle ticking along his jaw, as if he’s trying to compose himself, to hold himself back. Then he exhales, a cloud of smoke blurring his features, breaking the spell.

“Get some sleep,” he says again. “I’ll be up, working on the case. You’re safe here, Lena.” He pauses. “I promise you that.”

The protectiveness in his voice catches me off guard. There’s something endearing about his concern, even if I know I’m far more capable of defending myself than he realizes.

“You need your sleep, too,” I remind him. If he’s having blackouts due to stress, it seems like sleeping is one way to cure it.

“I know. Maybe I’ll join you.”

Then he strides over to the door, turning off the main light, leaving the room bathed in the warm glow of his desk lamp. He grabs a blanket that was hanging over the armchair and holds it out above me, motioning with a jerk of his chin for me to lie down.

I hesitate, feeling so damn vulnerable. Then I lie back along the couch as he drapes the blanket over me. My eyes fall closed. I let it happen, wanting to revel in the feeling of being taken care of, something I haven’t felt since I came to this city.

Before I can open them again, I drift off.

A pounding on the outer office door jerks me awake. Sometime during the night, Callahan must have sat at the end of the couch by my feet and slumped over into sleep, his head on my thigh, one arm above and draped over my waist. For a moment, I’m disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings and the comforting weight and heat of his hard, strong body against mine, as if he’s holding me in place as he slept.

Possessive.

The pounding continues, followed by a voice I recognize with a sinking heart.

“Callahan! Open the goddamn door. I know she’s in there.”

Marco.

Callahan is already alert, sitting up and reaching for his jacket, which contains his gun, I assume. “Stay here,” he says quietly.

“No,” I whisper, grabbing his arm. “Let me handle this.”

“Like hell.” His voice is low but firm. “That man is dangerous, Lena.”

“I’ve dealt with him before,” I reply, meeting his gaze steadily. “Let me try to defuse this.”

Something in my expression must convince him—or maybe I’m finally able to compel him—because after a moment he nods, though he still moves to position himself between me and the door as we enter the reception area.

Marco’s silhouette is visible through the frosted glass of the office door, broad-shouldered and menacing, although Callahan’s form matches his. Even though it would be horrible, for a wicked moment I envision a boxing match between the two of them, wanting to see Callahan at his most rough and dangerous.

Callahan unlocks the door and opens it just enough to reveal himself while keeping me partially shielded behind him.

“Russo,” he says coolly. “It’s not even seven a.m. Whatever business you have can wait for business hours.”

Marco’s face is flushed with anger, his eyes bloodshot. He’s been drinking, I realize—unusual for him this early in the day, though he probably hasn’t been to bed yet.

“Step aside, detective. I’m here for Lena.” His gaze shifts to me. “You and I need to have a conversation, baby. Privately.”

I know what his conversations mean. A black eye that will heal quicker than it should.

“She’s not going anywhere with you,” Callahan says, voice dangerously calm.

Marco’s hand drifts toward his jacket, where I know he keeps his gun. “This isn’t your business, Callahan.”

“I’m making it my business.” Callahan doesn’t reach for his own weapon, but his stance shifts subtly into something more defensive, more prepared.

I step out from behind him, placing a restraining hand on his arm. “Marco, go home. I’m here because of Elizabeth, that’s it. We’re discussing the case. Sleep it off. We’ll talk later.”

“Later?” Marco laughs, an ugly sound. “You spend the night with this guy and tell me we’ll talk later? You forgot who I am, Red? Who I work for?”

“I don’t care if you work for J. Edgar Hoover himself,” Callahan says. “She’s not leaving with you.”

For a tense moment, I think Marco might actually draw his gun. The hallway is empty this early—no witnesses if he decides to do something stupid. No witnesses except for me, but he doesn’t know that yet, doesn’t know that a bullet won’t kill me.

But finally, he points a finger at me, jabbing the air for emphasis.

“This isn’t over. Mickey wants to know why you’ve been asking questions about Elizabeth’s contacts. Why you’ve been poking around warehouses that don’t concern you.” His gaze shifts to Callahan. “Both of you.”

My blood runs cold. If Cohen knows we’re investigating, we’ve lost whatever element of surprise we might have had.

“Go home, Marco,” I repeat, keeping my voice steady, letting my compelling power to seep through. “Go home before you say something you’ll regret.”

His eyes narrow. “You think you’re untouchable because you sing pretty? Because men, men like this chump here, want you? You’re just merchandise, baby. Property. And Cohen doesn’t like people messing with his property.”

Callahan takes a step forward, but I tighten my grip on his arm. The last thing we need is a physical confrontation.

“Careful, Russo,” Callahan says softly. “Those sound a lot like threats.”

“Just facts.” Marco’s gaze shifts between us. “You two think you’re so smart. You have no idea what you’re stepping into.” He takes a step back. “No fucking idea.”

With that, he turns and stalks toward the stairs, leaving a tense silence in his wake. At least I compelled him enough to go without violence.

Callahan closes and locks the door, then turns to me. “Are you alright?”

I nod, though I’m shaken more than I want to admit. Not by Marco’s threats—I’ve handled worse—but by the implication that Cohen knows what we’re doing. We don’t just have to fear the Europeans, but the most dangerous gangster in the city.

“I think this means we might have to work together now,” I tell him.

“Funny. I already thought we were.” He holds my gaze. “Partners, then?”

He holds out his hand.

“Partners,” I agree, the word feeling significant somehow.

He shakes my hand but doesn’t let go. Instead he gives it a comforting squeeze, a simple gesture that makes my toes curl.

“Then as your partner, mind if I take you out for breakfast and drive you home? We have a lot to discuss.”

That brings a rare smile to my face. “I’d like that.”

Before I’d be worried about being seen, but since Marco is already assuming the worst, then I’ll take my chances. I just hope I compelled him enough to keep his cool for a day or two.

But as we head out to his car, I can’t help but wonder if I’m making a mistake, binding my fate to a man with so many mysteries surrounding him. But after this morning—after the intruder and Marco’s threats—it’s clear that whatever danger lies ahead, we’ll face it better together than apart.

The question is…how together will we end up being?