Page 12 of Nocturne

11

LENA

I stand at the window and peer through the curtain in vain, thinking that Callahan might pull up in his car at any minute. Perhaps changing his mind and taking me up on my offer. Maybe just to sit and watch my apartment, to make sure I’m okay.

But he never comes back. It’s possible I did compel him, although if I had completely succeeded, I’d be fucking him right now. Not that I would ever use my compulsion abilities when it comes to sex, that’s low, even for a vampire. Still, I’m surprised he was able to say no to me. The man has balls of steel.

I glance at the hazy golden sun, getting low behind the palms that line the street. So far I don’t feel afraid, even with what happened last night. When the sun goes down, though, it will be a different story. The night, which has comforted me most of my life, even as a pre-vampire child, now feels like it holds more secrets and monsters than it can contain.

I’ve always had a fear of humans—after all, they might not know how to kill me, but there are worse things than dying. A lot worse. I can be restrained. I can be raped, tortured. I can have loved ones taken from me. Humans are unpredictable and full of malice and spite, especially toward those they consider to be an other , towards things they don’t understand, or fit into the tidy little box they say their God created for them.

But, truthfully, I fear other vampires even more. Maybe it’s my youth, my lack of experience with them, combined with the fact that they are either as strong and dangerous as I am, or much worse. And if it’s vampires who are behind Betty’s murder, then I’m in a whole lot of trouble.

Everyone in this town is.

I step away from the window and head to the kitchen, opening the fridge. There’s nothing in there that I want. The glass bottle of “beet juice” that I label “For Women’s Issues,” in case Marco ever goes snooping, is empty, red dregs staining the bottom. I haven’t fed properly in a long time and my stomach gnaws at itself. Maybe that’s part of my problem—I’m blood starved and not thinking properly.

I have two options. I can go to one of the blood banks that operate under the guise of paint stores. They’re run by vampires, of course, giving out human blood in paint cans. The problem with these places is that you can’t be sure if they’re, well, morally sourced. Vampires don’t need to kill humans to survive, but we do need their blood. There are some people who will willingly give their blood—humans in the know—but it takes connections to find them. When you’re dealing with a paint store, most of the blood supplied is from people vampires have gone out and specifically killed.

And yes, I know, that’s what we’re supposed to do. It’s in our nature. But it’s hard to operate in this world, to blend in and befriend humans and then turn around and kill them for food. There’s a reason most humans don’t become best friends with a cow.

There was only one time where I had to kill someone, but I didn’t do it on purpose. I was attacked walking home late one night. A man who thought it might be fun to violate the woman he just saw on stage. He cornered me near a construction site and I fought back. It was self-defense—at first. Then bloodlust took over. I fed and fed, then got enough sense to call my friend Abe and get help covering it up.

That’s who I need to call now, though I’ve been putting it off for one reason or another. Probably because I know I’m going to get a talking to. He’s a doctor and lectures are his forte.

I pick up the phone and dial.

“Van Helsing,” his lightly accented voice says through the line.

“Abe? It’s Lena.”

A pause. “I had a feeling you’d call.”

Abe has always had better intuition than most. He’s been alive and pivotal to the vampire community through many centuries, even inspired a character in Bram Stoker’s Dracula .

“Can I come over?” I ask. “I’m hungry.”

Abe’s place is out in Malibu, on a beautiful fog-shrouded stretch of the coast. A burgeoning playground for the rich and corrupted, as well as the perfect cover for a colony of vampires. Abe started it with us in mind, wanting a place that vampires in the area could live and feed without suspicion. Says he was inspired by a friend up in San Francisco who runs a similar situation. Aside from his main house with the many guest bedrooms, there’s a tract of housing that extends into the canyons on the other side of the Roosevelt Highway where many vampires live full-time.

I’d lived there when I first moved to Los Angeles. I didn’t arrive alone—my father came with me, and he knew Ezra, one of Abe’s friends, quite well. Made him promise to take care of me, show me the ropes of how to be a vampire alone in a big city.

After a few months, though, I started getting singing gigs and I wanted to be closer to the city. Still stayed in touch with Abe and the rest, depending on them for help with ethical feedings, but I haven’t been out this way for quite a while. Being around humans all day, being with Marco, has gone a long way in making me forget what I am.

Until the hunger strikes.

Abe’s home sits on a pristine stretch of beach, a modernist structure of glass and concrete that seems to grow from the cliffside itself. As I pull into the circular drive, I see lights glowing warmly through the fog, beckoning me inside.

Abe is already at the door by the time I’m walking up, the sound of the ocean surf drowning out the click of my heels on the smooth pavement.

“Lena,” he says warmly in his cultured accent, holding out his arms.

I step into his embrace, finding comfort in his grasp. He smells like cedar and ocean spray with a touch of bergamot, probably from his beloved Earl Grey tea.

“Hello, Abe,” I say, smiling into him. I pull back and give him the once over. Though he seems the same—floppy red-orange hair, bright, intelligent eyes behind his glasses that are only there for show—he looks spiffier than usual. Abe is usually a fairly modest man, something he blames on being Dutch and then spending centuries in England, but today his navy suit looks impeccable. “New threads?”

“My current company insisted I dress better,” he says wryly. “You must come in and meet him. He’s a musician, you know, among other things. I would love to see you do a duet on the piano.”

He brings me inside the house and to the living room that leads out to an expansive deck and the fog beyond, where three figures emerge from the shadows. Two I recognize as Ezra—charming smile, dark hair, perpetual stubble—and Adonis—a giant at six-five, thick black hair, amber eyed. But the third figure takes my breath away as he steps into view.

We’ve never met before but I know who he is, regardless. He moves like a panther, dressed in black pants with a matching shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showcasing tanned forearms, with dark wavy hair that meets his chin, arched brows, and dark brown, nearly black eyes that seem to drink in the sight of me.

“Lena Reid,” Abe says, “may I present my good friend Valtu Aminoff.”

“Dracula,” I say to him, the first time I’ve felt vaguely star struck, and I’ve sung privately for Gary Cooper at his birthday party. After all, Valtu Aminoff was the inspiration for Bram Stoker in his namesake book. He’s probably the most famous vampire around, even though they say the story in the book doesn’t bear much resemblance to the real-life tale. Apparently Aminoff’s is much more tragic.

Valtu gives me a languid smile. “With a body like that, you can call me whatever you’d like, love.”

“Remember she’s here to eat, Val. And by that, I mean blood.” Abe motions at Adonis and Ezra. “Come, let’s get the feeding room ready for her.”

At the mention of the feeding room, my body thrums with hunger.

“Careful,” Abe says into my ear as he walks past. “He’s a deviant and has a penchant for redheads.”

I give Abe a look of surprise. “Does that include you?”

Abe rolls his eyes as Valtu reaches out and takes my hand, his grip soft but strong, pulling me toward him.

“Delighted to make your acquaintance,” he says in a low, smooth voice as the others leave the room. He brings my hand up to his mouth, kissing the back of it before flipping it over and running his nose along the veins of my wrist. They seem to stand out like ink now against my white skin, as if he’s hypnotizing my own blood.

Whatever he’s doing is working though, because my knees feel a little weak.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” I tell him.

“I’m sure,” he says, still holding onto my wrist while his other hand snakes around my lower back. “Though I bet you didn’t know I was musician.”

“You’re right. Is there anything you can’t do?”

“Not really.” He leans in and smells my neck.

“You’re awfully forward for someone I just met,” I tell him, my eyes widening.

“And you’re surprisingly sheltered for a jazz singer,” he says against my skin as he places a kiss beneath my ear. It explodes like fireworks. “You ought to hang around vampires some more. Then I won’t seem so forward.” He breathes in deeply, enough that my skin erupts in goosebumps. “We could make some beautiful music together.”

“That better not be innuendo,” I tell him.

He pulls back slightly to stare at me, fingers pressing into my waist. “Well, since you already think I’m being forward, I have a question for you. Have you slept with another vampire before, or do you only save yourself for those that work for Mickey Cohen?”

I swallow hard, feeling vulnerable and on the spot. Why did Abe leave me with a deviant again?

“I see,” he says, eyes flicking over my face. “Don’t you know that sex with another vampire is the greatest pleasure you can find in this world?”

My cheeks flush. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re coming on to me.”

He chuckles and then dips his head against my neck, his nose dragging up to my earlobe which he takes between his lips and sucks, causing a red-hot current to shoot between my thighs.

Goodness, this is inappropriate.

Then he pulls back and examines my face, so close I’m not sure how he can even focus. I can only stare into the unending depths of his dark eyes, feeling a little lost.

“Hmmm,” he murmurs.

“What?” I whisper.

You’re already taken for , he says, his voice shooting into my head. I’ve only experienced the telepathic way of talking a few times before. Shows how often I’m around vampires.

Taken for? I ask, hoping my thoughts are being heard in his mind.

He nods, his gaze on my lips. Body, heart and soul, from the looks of it.

I do have a boyfriend , I remind him.

Sure. But it’s not him . He pulls back slightly, keeping a hold of my hand though he lets go of my waist. He doesn’t have your heart or soul. That belongs someone else.

Not Callahan , I think, then wince when I realize he probably heard me.

Valtu grins, like he solved a puzzle. It’s alright. We all have our little things when it comes to love.

I don’t think either of us knows a thing about love , I tell him.

A look of sadness comes across his brow. You’re probably right. I’m still looking for her in every face I see.

I frown at that odd remark—who is her?—while he lets go of my hand and steps away. “Oh Doctor,” Valtu calls out. “Is the feeding room ready? The lady is wasting away before my eyes.”

I hear shoes coming up the stairs and then Abe walks into the room, looking between the two of us. His expression for Valtu is unimpressed. “Sorry I left you alone with him,” Abe says to me.

“He was no bother,” I tell him.

“And she’s a little too young for me,” Valtu says with a sideways smile.

“Too young?” Abe scoffs. “Twenty-five is practically ancient for you, Val.”

“Twenty-five for humans,” he corrects. “Twenty-five for a vampire is practically a child. No offense, Lena. Call me in a hundred years.”

Then he saunters off, like he wasn’t about to maul me beside the fireplace.

I make a face at Abe. “I’m not a child.”

He chuckles lightly. “You’re young, Lena, and that’s okay. Come, let’s get some food in you. Would you like to change before? Would hate to ruin your nice clothes. I have a bathrobe waiting.”

He takes my arm and leads me to the door that’s usually locked with several deadbolts, then down the stairs to the lower level of the house. Here there are no windows that take in the view of the beach. It’s like a cave, dark save for a few candles lit here and there. Vampires love their ambience.

I’ve been down here before, of course. I’ve used the feeding room several times, though I prefer the blood bags and bottles he keeps in the special refrigerator upstairs. Clinical, safe, removed from the reality of what we are. I’d rather stockpile those in my fridge than have to face what I am.

Because when you’re drinking blood directly from a human, there’s no denying you’re a monster.

But while the prepackaged blood sustains us, but it lacks something vital—the life force, the energy that comes from drinking directly from the source. It’s like surviving on diet shakes instead of real food. You won’t starve, but you’ll never thrive.

The feeding room is a large chamber carved from the natural rock beneath the house, running slightly under the Roosevelt Highway toward the mountains. There’s even a tunnel that connects to the other colony houses. The room is reinforced with modern materials and softened with luxurious touches that are so quintessentially Abe. Plush Persian rugs cover portions of the polished concrete floor. Comfortable leather chairs sit in one corner, like a perverse waiting room.

And then there are the feeding stations.

Three padded tables with medical-grade restraints, positioned precisely beneath ceiling fixtures where heavy iron chains hang, ending in manacles designed for vampire wrists. The dichotomy has always fascinated me—we chain ourselves while feeding from the willing, to ensure we don’t lose control and kill them. But for those brought here to die, the restraints are reversed.

“The robe is in the changing area,” Abe says, gesturing to a small alcove. Most vampires don’t blink an eye at nudity, but I prefer the privacy. Maybe I really am young.

I step behind the screen and remove my shoes, hanging my dress carefully on the provided hook. The silk bathrobe is cool against my skin as I slip it on, tying the sash firmly around my waist. I find a band and pull my hair back into a tight ponytail, tucking any stray strands behind my ears. Blood in hair is a nightmare to wash out.

When I emerge, Abe is standing by a heavy metal door at the far end of the room.

“Your dinner is waiting,” he says, the words coming out more refined than sinister.

“Do I want to know who?” I ask, though I already know it won’t be one of the willing donors. Those appointments are scheduled, and clinical. This late-night, impromptu session means only one thing.

“His name is Harold Mercier,” Abe says, opening the door. “We’ve been keeping him for a week now, saving him for a special occasion. Murdered those three kids found in Baldwin Hills but walked away clean. He’s not walking anywhere now.”

The feeding chamber beyond is smaller, dimmer, with drain grates in the floor and hoses coiled on hooks along the wall for clean-up afterward. In the center, a man kneels, naked, heavy chains binding him to a metal ring embedded in the floor. He looks up as we enter, his face already showing the bruises of his capture.

“This is bullshit,” he snarls, pulling against his restraints. His voice is hoarse, like he’s been screaming for hours. Sometimes the victims are gagged but most of the time the sound of screaming makes the blood taste better. “Do you know who I am? People will look for me.”

“No one is looking for you,” Abe says simply. “You matter to no one.” He turns to me. “He’s all yours, Lena. Take your time. Don’t hold back.”

As the door closes behind Abe, I’m left alone with Mercier. His bravado falters slightly as he registers that I’m not who he expected.

“What is this place?” he asks, his voice quieter now. “Some kind of cult?”

I step closer, circling him slowly. My adrenaline is off the charts as I smell his fear. “Something like that.”

“Look, I have money. A lot of it. Offshore accounts. I can make you rich.”

“Rich? I don’t need money,” I say, kneeling to meet his eyes. “I just need what’s in your veins.”

Confusion clouds his features, then understanding as my fangs descend. The typical human reaction follows—first disbelief, then terror as they confront something their rational mind can’t accept.

“This isn’t happening,” he whispers. “This isn’t real.”

But it is, and some primal part of him knows it. Fear floods his system with chemicals, making his heart pound faster, pushing his blood through his veins with greater force. The sound of it fills my ears, a drumbeat I can’t ignore.

I’ve only fed from the willing in this place. The rapist I murdered was the only non-willing one I’ve had.

But tonight, with Betty’s murder and Marco’s threats and the Europeans lurking in the shadows, I need my full strength. And a small, dark part of me whispers that this man deserves whatever comes to him.

My teeth break his skin before I can second-guess myself again.

The first taste hits me like lightning. It’s life itself flowing into me, hot and vital and electric. Every cell in my body responds, awakening, strengthening. A gasp escapes me, muffled against his neck.

I meant to be careful. To take just enough. To maintain that last thread of my humanity by showing restraint. I don’t have to be the one that ends his life, I can just take what I need.

But the blood awakens something primal, something I’ve kept caged and starving for too long. Each swallow demands another. Each mouthful stokes rather than sates my hunger. My hands grip tighter, my body pressing against his as I drink deeper, faster.

It’s only when there’s nothing left that I finally release him, stumbling backward as his body slumps to the floor.

Blood is smeared over my mouth, my chin, has somehow splashed onto my robe despite my precautions. I stare at what I’ve done, at the empty shell that was once a man. A monster, yes, but I’m one too.

The door opens quietly, and Abe steps in, taking in the scene with a glance.

“You needed that,” he says simply. “How do you feel?”

And that’s the most terrifying part. I feel wonderful. Strong. Alive. The constant ache of hunger that’s been my companion for so long has finally quieted. My senses are sharper, my reflexes quicker. Power courses through me, setting every nerve ending alight.

“I killed him,” I whisper, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

“Yes. As we intended.” Abe steps closer, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t waste guilt on men like him, Lena. Save it for those who deserve your compassion. Now, clean up and change. Then come upstairs and join us for some wine. Valtu brought us a good vintage. 1700s.”

As I wash the blood from my skin, I catch my reflection in the small mirror above the basin. My eyes seem brighter, my skin more vibrant. The woman looking back at me is stronger, more powerful.

More dangerous.

Which is what I need to be going forward.