Page 16 of Nocturne

15

LENA

I trace my finger where the bruise on my cheek once was. There is no evidence of Marco’s rage, no mark to show what happened in my apartment yesterday. There never is, something I’ve explained away by having a good makeup kit.

But the same can’t be said for my memories.

Marco’s hands on my throat.

The door splintering as Callahan kicked it in.

The look in Callahan’s eyes as he attacked Marco—something feral, unrestrained. Something that stirred a response in me I wasn’t prepared for.

I close my eyes, remembering how Callahan’s fists had connected with Marco’s face, the sound of bone cracking, the blood spattering across my floor. I should have been horrified. Instead, I’d felt a shameful thrill, a dark excitement that I’ve spent years trying to suppress.

Violence is in our nature—in vampire nature, at least. We’re predators, designed to hunt, to kill. But my parents raised me to resist those impulses, to blend in with humans, to be better than our baser instincts.

Yet watching Callahan unleash that fury had awakened something in me. A recognition.

“You’re mine, not his,” he’d said afterward, his voice rough with possession.

The memory sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with want. I’ve never felt this pull toward anyone before, this desperate hunger that goes beyond physical attraction.

Even now, thinking about the way his mouth had claimed mine in my dressing room, the way his hands had moved over my body with such possessive need—it makes my fangs ache, my pussy throb, the hunger rising in me like a tide. I’ve never lost control like that before, never given myself over so completely to desire.

Is it because he’s different than most humans? Because there’s something about him that feels like recognition, like coming home?

Or am I just falling into the trap that has snared so many of my kind—mistaking bloodlust for love?

I shake my head, turning away from the mirror. Whatever this is between us, it’s dangerous. For both of us.

Besides, I have bigger concerns right now than my complicated feelings for a human detective, no matter how enthralling he is. Marco threatened us both yesterday, promised retribution.

And Marco doesn’t make empty threats.

As I enter my kitchen, I try to focus on the mundane task ahead of me. Making sandwiches for Anne has become a ritual even in trying times like these, one of the few human connections I maintain outside of necessity. I carefully arrange ham, lettuce, and a slather of mustard between slices of bread, wrapping them in wax paper.

The simple act grounds me, reminds me of the person I’m trying to be—not the monster lurking beneath my skin, the one that wanted to join Callahan in his violence against Marco, the one that wanted to sink her teeth into Marco’s throat and drain him dry, get the fill I’ve been wanting all this time.

The sandwich-making also gives me time to think about what I should do next. The diary is gone, stolen by someone who knew exactly where to look. That means I’m being watched, my movements tracked, yet I haven’t been hurt. By whom? The Europeans? Marco? Cohen’s people?

Or could it be Callahan himself?

The thought brings me up short. Could he have staged the break-in, manufactured a reason to get closer to me? But that doesn’t make sense. He already had access to me. If he wanted the diary that badly, he could have just asked. Besides, no human could have moved like that.

No, someone else took it. Someone who doesn’t want the truth about Elizabeth’s death to come out.

I wrap the extra sandwich, tucking it into my bag as I prepare to leave for The Emerald Room. The usual flutter of pre-performance nerves is absent tonight, replaced by a heavy dread. I don’t know what awaits me there—whether Marco will make good on his threats with a carefully bandaged face, whether Cohen himself might be involved already. If Callahan will show up wanting me and wanting trouble.

All I know is that I need to be careful. More careful than ever.

The club is uncharacteristically quiet for a Friday night. The usual buzz of conversation is subdued, the laughter forced. Even Joey seems tense as he greets me backstage, his smile not reaching his eyes.

“Light crowd tonight,” I observe, hanging up my coat.

“Yeah, it’s strange,” he agrees, glancing over his shoulder as if expecting someone to be listening. “Marco’s a no-show, too. No word from him all day. None of his pals are here, either. Same goes for your detective buddy.”

A cold weight settles in my stomach. “That’s unusual.”

Joey nods, his expression guarded. “Some of the boys are saying Marco got in a fight. Looked pretty beat up. You know anything about that, Lena?”

“No,” I lie smoothly. “Last I saw Marco was at my apartment yesterday afternoon. He was…upset.”

Joey’s eyes flick to my face, searching for bruises that are no longer visible. “Looked like it when he left. But you seem okay.”

“I am.” I manage a smile, though it feels brittle on my face. “I always am.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but he knows better than to press. Joey has survived in this world by minding his own business and keeping his mouth shut. It’s why he’s lasted so long at The Emerald Room.

“Ten minutes till your first set,” he says, checking his watch. “Band’s ready when you are.”

I nod, moving to my dressing room to make final preparations. As I touch up my lipstick, I scan the room through the mirror, half-expecting to find Callahan lurking in a corner as he had the other night. But the room is empty save for my reflection.

The hollow disappointment I feel is unwelcome. I shouldn’t want to see him. Not after the threats Marco made. Not with Cohen’s people undoubtedly watching.

Yet I do. With an intensity that frightens me.

I push it out of my head, talk briefly to Anne, giving her the sandwiches, then it’s time to go on.

The first set goes smoothly, though I find myself scanning the crowd between each song, looking for Callahan’s steady gaze, for Marco’s simmering anger. Neither is present, and their absence leaves me unsettled. Where are they? Why has Marco not shown up? What happened after Callahan left my apartment yesterday?

I finish with “I’ll Be Seeing You,” letting the final note linger in the air before taking a modest bow. The applause is enthusiastic but smaller than usual, the crowd thin and nervous. I can’t quite shake the feeling that something is wrong.

Backstage, I’m halfway to my dressing room when I feel the prickle of danger. I turn slowly, knowing before I see him.

Mickey Cohen is not an impressive figure physically—short, balding, with features that might be considered plain if not for the power they exude. Back in the day he was a boxer and was known for throwing a punch, something I’m sure he can still do, but he cultivates a more civilized air these days, seeming to prefer diplomacy.

But there’s no mistaking the aura of menace that surrounds him, the casual cruelty in his dark eyes.

At his side stands Johnny Stompanato, his bodyguard and enforcer—tall, impeccably dressed, with a face that belongs on a movie poster and a reputation for extreme violence. The contrast between them would be comical if it weren’t so terrifying.

“Ms. Reid,” Cohen says, his voice deceptively gentle. “Got a minute to chat?”

It’s not a request. I nod, gesturing toward my dressing room. “Mickey. Of course.”

Cohen shakes his head. “Here is fine. Just a quick conversation between friends.”

The hallway is deserted, everyone else having made themselves scarce at Cohen’s arrival. I straighten my spine, meeting his gaze directly. Showing fear to men like Cohen is like bleeding in shark-infested waters.

“I understand Marco paid you a visit yesterday,” he begins, watching me closely. “A visit that ended with him looking like he went three rounds with Joe Louis.”

I swallow hard. “He was upset. Things got out of hand.”

“Things got out of hand,” Cohen repeats softly. “And that private dick of yours decided to play hero, that it? Or was it you that laid down the punches?”

I say nothing, which seems to amuse him.

“See, here’s the thing, Lena—can I call you Lena?” He doesn't wait for my response. “Marco’s missing. Didn’t come home last night. Didn’t show up for work today. That’s not like him.”

“I wouldn’t know,” I reply, keeping my voice steady. “I haven’t seen him since yesterday afternoon.”

“And your detective friend? When’s the last time you saw him?”

The question sends a chill through me. “He left my apartment right after Marco did. I haven’t seen him since.”

Cohen studies me, head tilted slightly like a predator considering its prey. “You know, I always liked you, Lena. Good voice, good look, keep your nose clean. But I’m starting to think you might be holding out on me.”

Stompanato shifts his weight, the movement drawing my eye. His hand rests on his hip, close to where I know he keeps his gun. The threat is implicit.

“I’m not,” I say, injecting a note of fear into my voice—not entirely feigned. “I swear, I don’t know where Marco is.”

Cohen sighs, as if disappointed. “See, I think you do. Or at least, you know more than you’re telling me. Maybe about Marco. Maybe about those Europeans he was working with—the ones your friend Elizabeth Short got mixed up with before she ended up in two pieces.”

My breath catches. “I don’t?—”

“Save it.” Cohen holds up a hand. “I’ve got no beef with you, Lena. You’re a good investment. Bring in customers, keep the place classy. But if Marco turns up dead, and I find out you or your detective had anything to do with it…” He lets the threat hang in the air.

“Anything I can help you with, Mr. Cohen?” Joey’s voice comes from behind me, a welcome interruption.

Cohen’s expression smooths into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Just having a friendly chat with your star attraction, Joey. Nothing to worry about.” He turns back to me. “You take care now, Lena. And if you happen to hear from Marco—or your detective friend—you let me know right away.”

With that, he strolls past me, Stompanato close behind. As the bodyguard passes, he leans in slightly.

“Nice dress,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear. “I’ve always wondered what you look like out of it. Maybe when Mickey’s done with you, I’ll find out.”

I stiffen, fighting the urge to bare my fangs. By the time I turn around, they’re both gone, leaving me alone in the hallway with Joey, who looks as if he’s aged ten years in ten minutes.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

I nod, though I’m far from okay. “Just need a minute before the next set.”

In my dressing room, I sink onto the small sofa, hands trembling slightly. Cohen suspects something happened to Marco—something involving me and Callahan. And given Marco’s threats yesterday, that suspicion isn’t unreasonable.

But what if something did happen? What if Callahan followed Marco, confronted him again? What if…

No. Callahan isn’t a killer. He’s a PI, a man who believes in justice, in the system. He wouldn’t…

Would he?

The image of his face as he pummeled Marco flashes through my mind—the cold fury in his eyes, the barely restrained violence. He’d wanted to hurt Marco, that much was clear. But murder?

I shake my head, trying to clear it. I need help. I need allies who understand the world I inhabit, of the trouble I might be in.

I need Abe.

The phone sits on my dressing table, beckoning. I could call Callahan, but what if Cohen’s people are watching? What if they follow me? No, I need someone who can ensure I’m not followed, someone with abilities that can protect me.

I pick up the phone and dial.

“Yes.”

“Abe,” I whisper, relief flooding through me at the sound of his voice. “It’s Lena. I need help.”

There’s a pause, then: “What’s happened?”

“I can’t talk over the phone. Can you send Adonis to pick me up? At The Emerald Room?”

Another pause. “Of course. He’ll be there in forty minutes.”

I hang up, heart racing. Forty minutes. I can get through one more set, then slip out the back. Adonis can ensure no one follows us—his compulsion abilities are stronger than mine, able to make people forget they ever saw us.

The next forty minutes crawl by as I perform my second set, forcing a smile, ignoring the empty tables and nervous glances. Cohen is gone, but his presence lingers like smoke.

Finally, I take my last bow and hurry backstage. Joey intercepts me on my way to the dressing room.

“Car just pulled up out back,” he says quietly. “Guy says he’s here for you. Name’s Adonis.”

I nod, grateful for Joey’s discretion, while knowing that Adonis’s abilities are already taking effect on him. “Thanks. I might not be back for a few days. If anyone asks?—”

“You weren’t feeling well, needed time off,” he finishes. “I got you covered.”

I squeeze his arm in thanks, then slip through the back door into the alley where a black Ford Super Deluxe convertible idles, engine purring softly. The door opens as I approach, revealing Adonis’s familiar face—dark hair falling over one eye, quiet smile firmly in place despite the tension of the moment.

“Your carriage awaits,” he says, his voice lightly accented, a mix of Egyptian and Greek.

I slide into the passenger seat, exhaling a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. “Thank you for coming.”

“For you? Always.” He adjusts his six-five frame, his head nearly touching the roof, then puts the car in gear, pulling smoothly into traffic. “Don’t tell me you’ve gotten into more trouble since we last spoke.”

“Alright. I won’t tell you.” I lean my head back against the seat, suddenly bone-weary. “But first, we need to make sure we’re not followed. I know you can control the people who see us but what about the ones we don’t see?”

Adonis’ smile turns dangerous, a glimpse of the predator beneath the charm. “Leave that to me.”

He takes a series of seemingly random turns, weaving through side streets until we reach a stoplight. A car pulls up behind us—one I recognize as belonging to one of Cohen’s men.

Adonis meets my eyes briefly, then lowers his window, turning to look directly at the driver behind us. His mouth moves but no words come out, at least none that I can hear. His power rolls off him in waves—the compulsion that no human can resist.

The car behind us makes an abrupt turn at the next opportunity, driving away as if we never existed.

“They’ll remember following a different car,” Adonis explains, raising the window. “A wild goose chase that will lead them in circles until the compulsion wears off.” He gives me a proud, quiet smile. “Now, to Malibu.”

The drive to the colony takes less than an hour, the city giving way to coastline as we head north. Mist rolls in from the ocean, shrouding the road in ghostly white, isolating us from the world. It feels appropriate somehow—this liminal space between my life in the city and the sanctuary that awaits.

Adonis takes my arm as we approach the front door, a gesture both protective and supportive. “Whatever’s happened,” he says quietly, “we’ll help you through it.”

The door opens before we reach it, revealing Abe, elegant in a smoking jacket, his red hair swept back from his forehead. Behind him stands Ezra, peering at me with curiosity. From the tinkling sound of the piano in the depths of the house, I’d wager Valtu Aminoff is still staying with them.

“Lena,” Abe says, his voice warm with concern. “Come in. You look like you’ve had quite a fright.”

I step into the warmth of the house, feeling some of the tension drain from my shoulders. Here, I don’t have to pretend.

“Tell us everything,” Abe says, leading me to the living room with its panoramic view of the misty ocean. “Last we spoke, you got your fill. Are you hungry again?”

I shake my head, noting the piano notes have stopped. “It’s not about feeding. It’s about Victor Callahan.”

“The PI,” Valtu says from the doorway as he leans against it, sipping from a goblet, looking every inch the Dark Prince in his black attire and wavy hair. “The one you pretended to not have feelings for.”

“We told you not to get involved,” Abe chides.

I give the doctor a pointed look. “And have you ever known me to listen?”

“Fair enough,” Abe says. “So, what about Callahan?”

Ezra comes by and gives me a glass of wine mixed with blood, preserved with anticoagulants, a favorite pick me up. I take it eagerly, finishing half the glass before Ezra laughs, making me stop. My hand is trembling as I place it down on the glass coffee table.

“Callahan and Marco,” I tell them, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. Then I launch into everything that’s happened since the last I was here, including the bits I wish I could hide—the fact that I slept with Callahan.

“And now Marco’s missing,” I finish, downing the rest of the glass. “Cohen came to see me at the club tonight, thinks I know something about it. Or that Callahan does.”

“And do you?” Abe asks, watching me carefully.

Ezra hands me another glass. I take a careful sip, feeling strength returning to my limbs. “No. But Callahan was furious. The way he attacked Marco—I’ve never seen a human so violent. So…unleashed.” I hesitate. “There’s something different about him. Something not quite right.”

“Hmmm. And you think he killed your Marco?” Ezra asks, now sprawled in an armchair, deceptively casual.

“I don’t know. I don’t want to believe it. But if he did…” I meet Abe’s steady gaze. “I wouldn’t blame him.”

Abe sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Lena, you know becoming involved with humans is dangerous. Especially humans connected to a murder investigation.”

“I’m not involved with him,” I protest. “I just slept with him.”

Valtu snorts in response.

“Your face says otherwise, cara mia ,” says Ezra teasingly.

I glare at him, but Abe continues before I can respond.

“Regardless of your personal feelings, this Callahan is a complication we don’t need right now.” He leans forward, brows knitting together. “These symbols you described from the warehouse, the ones from Elizabeth’s diary—can you draw them for me?”

I nod, accepting the paper and pen Adonis silently provides. I sketch the symbols as best I can remember them—curved lines intersecting with sharp angles, circles containing what looked like stars or runes.

Abe studies my drawing, his expression growing grave. “Hmmm. I was afraid of that.”

Valtu crosses over and looks over Abe’s shoulder at the drawing, sucking in his breath at the sight.

“What?” I ask.

“These are Skardic symbols—ancient magic used by certain vampire bloodlines, primarily from Eastern Europe,” Abe explains.

“Vampires practicing magic?” I ask, incredulous. “Like witches do? Is that even possible?”

“It’s rare,” Valtu says. “But it can happen. Some vampires have the ability to barter with witches, to learn the spells and tricks from them.” He pauses. “Before, you mentioned seeing blood under the door when the intruder was in your house. Maybe that was a hallucination. Or maybe it was magic.”

“But witches and vampires hate each other. Witches kill vampires,” I point out.

Valtu shrugs and has another sip of his drink. “I’m not saying I like witches. I’m just saying.”

“Most of our kind rely on our natural abilities,” Abe says. “But some bloodlines—particularly the older Russian families—maintained connections to pre-Christian magical practices. Many of them are part vampire, part witch. I knew one such vampire who was also a witch and a priest.” He stares off with a dreamy look I rarely see on his face. “He was even a pirate.”

Valtu’s eyes seek the ceiling and he sighs. “Always with the pirate,” he mutters under his breath. Obviously there’s some story there.

“Do you know who might be using these symbols in Los Angeles?” I ask, though I suspect I already know the answer.

“The Ivanovs,” Adonis says, his accented voice resonant in the quiet room, the sound of their name hitting me deep. “A Russian family that settled in Burbank after the Revolution. They keep to themselves mostly, but there have been rumors.”

“What kind of rumors?”

“Disappearances,” Abe says grimly. “Young women with specific blood types. Rituals requiring blood sacrifice. You know your friend’s blood type was reported as AB negative. That’s rare. That could be what the Ivanovs were looking for.”

My stomach turns.

Abe continues, “If the Ivanovs are behind Elizabeth’s murder, they’re likely planning something bigger. Something that requires multiple sacrifices.”

“So there will be more victims,” I whisper.

“Most likely,” Adonis says quietly. “Unless they’re stopped.”

“But why now? Why here?” I ask, setting aside my empty glass.

Abe shakes his head. “That, I don’t know. But I suspect it may have something to do with Cohen and his organization. The Ivanovs need protection, resources, access to potential victims. Information is everything in this new world.”

“When Elizabeth was making deliveries for Cohen,” I say slowly, “to these Europeans, she saw something at a warehouse—someone strapped to a table. She couldn’t make heads or tails of it, but it scared her.”

“An earlier sacrifice, perhaps,” Ezra suggests.

“And Marco works for Cohen,” I continue. “Could the Ivanovs have taken him? Used him as their next sacrifice?”

“Possible,” Abe concedes. “Though from what you’ve described, Marco doesn’t seem like their usual type of victim.”

No, he doesn’t. Which brings me back to Callahan, to the violence I saw in him, to the possessive fury in his eyes when he said I was his.

“What about Callahan?” I ask quietly. “Could he be…like us?”

The three vampires exchange glances. It sounds silly now that I’ve said it out loud, but it’s something that’s been nagging me.

“Unlikely,” Abe says finally. “You would know it. We can sense it.”

“Unless he’s found a way to mask it,” Adonis says. “Perhaps his own compelling abilities can bypass ours. Especially if there’s magic involved. Glamours.”

I’d never thought about that. But even so, everything else about him seems so human. He eats a lot, drinks a lot. Strong, but not in an unbelievable way. No sign of fangs. Dick was huge, but not in a monstrous way. He does seem to have preternatural senses but it’s kind of hard to tell with humans sometimes.

“Get some rest,” Abe says gently. “Stay here for a few days, at least until we learn more about what the Ivanovs are planning. And Lena—” his voice takes on a warning tone “I hate to sound cliché, but you truly need to stay away from Callahan. Whether he killed Marco or not, he’s dangerous to you now. And if he’s dangerous to you, he’s dangerous to all of us.”

I nod, but as I follow Adonis to the guest rooms, I can’t help but think of Callahan—of the heat of his hands, the intensity of his gaze, the way he made me feel both protected and desired.

Human or vampire, killer or protector, he’s become entangled in my fate.

And I in his.

Whether either of us wants it or not.