Page 17 of Nocturne

16

LENA

T here’s a full moon tonight, bright and silvery outside my window. On nights like this I find it hard to sleep, and this is no exception. What slumber I’ve had came in fitful bursts, my mind too crowded with thoughts of Callahan, of Marco’s disappearance, of Mickey Cohen’s veiled threats. Despite Abe’s pleading yesterday to stay at the colony for the weekend, I’d returned to perform at The Emerald Room tonight. I couldn’t hide forever, and my absence would only fuel Cohen’s suspicions.

The club had been subdued, the crowd sparse. Still no sign of Marco. No sign of Callahan either, despite my calls to his office. Norma had promised to have him contact me, her voice tense with worry. “He hasn’t been in for days,” she’d confided. “Not like him at all.”

Now, as I drift between wakefulness and uneasy dreams, a chill crawls up my spine with icy, spindly fingers that makes my heart drop.

The air in my bedroom has changed, grown heavy with an electric presence that wasn’t there moments ago.

My breath feels cold.

I’m not alone.

My eyes snap open, body frozen in instinctive terror as I make out a silhouette standing at the foot of my bed. There stands a dark, looming figure, unnaturally still.

I gasp, sucking in air.

For a heartbeat, I think it’s the same presence from the night my apartment was invaded, the shadow that stole Elizabeth’s diary.

Back to kill me, finish the job.

All it would take is him taking off my head, or dousing me in gasoline and throwing a match to the bed.

But then the person moves and moonlight catches on the planes of a face I know too well.

Callahan.

Relief floods through me, followed immediately by confusion.

How did he get in?

Why is he standing there, silent and watchful?

I open my mouth to speak, to ask these questions, when he moves again—a blur of motion too fast for human capability. Before I can draw breath to scream, his hand clamps over my mouth, his body suddenly looming over mine, pinning me to the bed.

“Don’t scream,” he says, his voice rough, almost unrecognizable.

I stare up at him in shock, my heartbeat thundering in my ears. This close, I can see him clearly despite the darkness. Blood spatters his face and neck, stains the collar of his shirt. His eyes—those piercing blue eyes that have haunted my dreams—are different now.

Wilder.

Hungrier.

And his scent, beneath the metallic tang of blood, is something new, something I should have recognized before but never have.

The distinctive scent of vampire.

Impossible.

Male vampires manifest at thirty-five, transforming from latent to active in a violent awakening. But we always know what we are from birth, raised with the knowledge of our true nature, prepared for the change, the Becoming . And when the Becoming does happen, we’re aware. We’re in complete control of the vampires we become.

But Callahan shows no recognition in his eyes, no understanding of what’s happening to him. Just raw hunger and confusion swirling beneath the surface.

I keep perfectly still beneath his hand, letting him see that I won’t scream. Slowly, he removes his palm from my mouth, though he remains positioned above me, caging me with his body.

“Callahan,” I whisper, “what happened to you?”

He doesn’t answer, just stares down at me with those changed eyes. His breathing is ragged, chest heaving as if he’s been on the run. When he finally speaks, his words are stilted, forced.

“I don’t…know.”

I reach up cautiously, touching his face, my fingers coming away red with blood. “You’re in transition,” I tell him softly. “Your body is changing.”

“Changing into what?” His voice breaks on the question, the fear beneath his confusion finally surfacing.

Before I can answer, his head dips suddenly, face into the curve of my neck. It’s wet where the blood presses against me. I feel him inhale deeply, drawing my scent into his lungs. A shudder runs through his powerful frame.

“You smell…different,” he murmurs against my skin. “Have you always smelled this way?”

My heart races faster. He’s recognizing me as vampire, though he doesn’t understand what that recognition means. This could be dangerous—newly transitioning males are volatile, driven by instincts they can’t control or comprehend, but they’re always taken care of during the Becoming. They should be chained up, subdued, just as I was. If he’s going through it right now…the bloodlust…

He could kill me.

“Callahan,” I say carefully, “you need to let me help you. There are people who can explain what’s happening?—”

His mouth finds mine, cutting off my words with violent kiss. This is raw, primal, claiming. His tongue pushes past my lips, demanding entry, and I taste blood—fresh blood that he’s recently consumed, though I’m not sure he realizes it.

I should push him away. Should call Abe immediately.

I’m in literal danger.

But my body loves danger. It responds to his with an intensity that steals my breath. My arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him closer as a moan escapes me, the hunger for him becoming inconsolable.

His hands are everywhere then, tearing at my nightgown with inhuman strength, the delicate fabric ripping like tissue paper. Cool air hits my skin, immediately replaced by the burning heat of his mouth as he moves down my body.

“Need you,” he growls against my breast, the words barely human. “Need this.” His tongue laps up with a wide stroke. “Gonna take it.”

“Then take it,” I whisper as his teeth graze my nipple, sending shocks of pleasure through my body. I find myself arching into his touch, craving more. I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want him—with a famine that matches his own, a recognition that goes soul-deep.

When his hand slides between my thighs, finding me already slick with desire, I surrender to the inevitability of what’s happening between us. This isn’t just sex—it’s a claiming, a merging of two predatory natures finally recognizing each other.

With a blur of speed, his clothes are off and he roughly parts my legs with his knee, his giant cock jutting up between us, bigger than I remember it.

“Mine,” he says roughly, positioning himself above me. “Always mine.”

He drives into me, too hard, too fast, and I cry out, the sound caught between pleasure and pain. The bed slams against the wall with the force of his thrusts, and he pins my arms above my head with a grip that’s bruising in its intensity.

His face is wild above mine, almost feral as he pushes deeper. “Mine,” he repeats, a vicious growl in his voice. “Say it.”

I gasp beneath him, meeting each brutal thrust with one of my own. “Yours,” I finally manage to breathe, the word coming out as a ragged moan.

The room is chaos around us—furniture shaking, the bed frame creaking dangerously under the assault of our bodies. My nails dig into his back, drawing blood. He doesn’t flinch; if anything, it seems to drive him further into frenzy.

Everything is raw sensation now—his body pounding into mine, filling me completely, filling me in ways I never thought possible, as if he’s actually getting bigger while inside me. The edge of pain woven through every thrust; the animalistic need consuming us both. I lose track of time, of everything but him and this moment.

He releases my wrists to grasp my hips instead, the force enough to bruise bone as he slams us together harder, deeper. The impact breaks the headboard free from its bolts. Still, neither of us stops.

His breaths are harsh against my skin as he moves even faster, impossibly faster.

“More,” I beg shamelessly, wanting nothing but this—all of him. “Please, more.”

A vicious snarl tears from his throat as he obeys without mercy, and I scream helplessly beneath him.

Flesh on flesh. Desire like hunger.

Suddenly, he pulls out, flipping me over with brutal efficiency. My knees hit the mattress as he drags my hips up, and then he’s inside me again, pounding even harder from behind until I can’t breathe.

My vision blurs. I brace myself against the loosened headboard, barely able to hold on as he drives into me with a force that empties my lungs.

Then, to my surprise, he clamps his mouth over my neck, a bite just shy of breaking skin. The feeling alone, so central to who I am, is enough to make me come.

And come hard.

I explode around him, and he snarls again at the sensation, teeth pressing in harder as he rides out my release with merciless thrusts. My body spasms beneath him, but he doesn’t slow; he’s insatiable, demanding more and more until I’m unraveling completely.

“Again,” he commands, voice guttural, as if from deep within some primal part of himself. He lowers his head to my shoulder, biting down harder than before. “I want you to come again.”

My body obeys him before my mind even registers what he means. Another climax tears through me with blinding intensity; my vision whites out as I scream beneath his relentless assault. His rhythm is punishing, driving into me without pause or restraint.

The bed shudders violently beneath us, screws and bolts working loose from the frame now. He doesn’t stop until the whole thing collapses beneath our weight, sending us to the floor with a crash amidst splintered wood and torn sheets, the impact shaking the room like an earthquake. We’re still tangled together when we land, Callahan moving above me like a force of nature—undeterred, unstoppable. His grip on my hips is painful as he continues to pound into me with brutal precision.

“I’m going take it,” he growls again, voice roughened by need. “Take what I need. Take everything.”

I cry out as his hands slide up to my throat, squeezing, holding me there while he claims me completely. I barely recognize myself in this moment —wild and lost to sensation, unhinged by the ferocity of our joining.

But I recognize him: this newly made thing that is both Callahan and something not quite human yet. His pace becomes frenzied, each thrust more forceful than the last until I’m sure I’ll break apart under the strain of it all. He hauls me against him so there’s nothing between us—no distance, no space—just heat and skin and overwhelming need.

His other hand moves, tangles in my hair, jerking my head back. “Who else touched you while I’ve been gone?” he demands harshly, possessiveness underscoring every word.

“No one,” I gasp, pleasure and pain melding as his grip tightens. “Only you.”

A dark sound of satisfaction escapes him. “Only me. It will only ever be me.”

And that’s when I know he killed Marco.

His hand on my throat is now cutting off my air. The pressure is exquisite agony, pushing me closer to the edge, the thoughts of Marco slipping away into the night.

“Mine,” he growls again, the word a primal decree.

“Yes,” I choke out, lost to him, to us. “Yours.”

He shifts his angle suddenly, the sensation overwhelming as he slams deeper than before. My cries echo off the walls, desperate and pleading.

The room closes around us—nothing but raw need and the punishing rhythm of his body claiming mine and I’m barely holding on, every thrust sending tremors through my body, until I feel him finally start to lose control. There’s nothing human left in the way he fucks me now; it’s pure instinct, savage and relentless.

Purely animal.

Vampire.

“Close,” he grinds out, his voice breaking with urgency. “So close.”

My own release builds with a speed that’s terrifying, an inevitability that sweeps everything else away. “Victor,” I gasp, his name a plea on my lips as my entire body tightens.

He gives one more brutal thrust, and we both go over the edge.

I come apart around him again, shattering completely, a scream tearing from my throat. He follows with a feral roar, spilling into me, his hips jerking with each pulse of release. I can feel it as he fills me, hot and relentless, seeming to soothe every aching part of me.

We collapse together onto the mangled bed, still trembling from the intensity of it all. His weight pins me down; neither of us moves to untangle limbs or bodies. I can feel the ragged beat of his heart against my back.

For a moment after, he remains perfectly still, face buried in my neck, breath coming in harsh pants against my skin. Then, as suddenly as he appeared, he pulls away, a look of horror dawning on his face as awareness returns to his eyes.

“Lena,” he whispers, staring down at his blood-stained hands, at whatever he did before he got here, then at my naked body beneath him. “Oh god. What have I done?”

Before I can respond, he’s moving again, vampire-fast, gathering his scattered, torn clothing. I sit up, reaching for him. “Callahan, wait?—”

But he’s already at the window.

Then he’s gone, disappearing into the night like a phantom, leaving only the curtains billowing in the cool breeze of his departure.

I sit motionless for several minutes, my body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure even as my mind races with implications. Callahan is a vampire—or becoming one. But not like any vampire I’ve ever known. He doesn’t understand what he is, doesn’t recognize the signs of his own transformation. It’s splintering too, as if only half of him is going through the Becoming while the other half is staying human.

How is that possible? Every vampire child is raised knowing their nature, prepared for their awakening.

But not if they’re adopted.

My god. Did Callahan’s human parents realize they’d adopted a vampire?

My hands shake as I reach for the telephone on my nightstand, dialing Abe’s number. It rings four times before he answers, alert despite the late hour.

“Yes?”

“Abe,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “It’s me. It’s about Callahan. He was just here.”

A pause. “At your apartment? I thought we agreed you would stay away from him.”

“He came to me.” I draw a steadying breath. “Abe, he’s a vampire. Or in the middle of the Becoming. He-he was covered in blood, moving faster than any human could. But he doesn’t know what he is. He’s confused, scared. Like he has two personalities, like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. I think…I think he might have killed someone else before he came here.”

The silence on the other end of the line stretches for several heartbeats.

“That’s not possible, Lena,” Abe finally says. “A vampire who doesn’t know his own nature? Who wasn’t raised with the knowledge? How old is this man?”

“Thirty-five,” I tell him. “He just turned thirty-five and he says he’s had the blackouts since then. Thirty-five is when men transition.”

“Yes, but?—”

“I know what I saw.” I close my eyes. “Abe, he’s adopted. He’d told me that much. Doesn’t know anything about his birth parents.”

Another silence, this one heavier.

“There’s more,” I admit, the words difficult to voice. “I think he might have murdered Elizabeth.”