Page 18 of Nocturne

17

CALLAHAN

I wake with a gasp, sheets tangled around my legs, sweat cooling on my skin. The dream clings to me like smoke—Lena beneath me, her body arching against mine, her nails scoring down my back as I claimed her with a ferocity that should frighten me, the kind of raw lust that doesn’t take no for an answer.

But it doesn’t scare me.

It excites me.

Outside my window, dawn is a dull gray glow, subdued by the marine layer. I exhale and run a hand through my hair, finding it slightly damp. Odd. I don’t remember showering before collapsing into bed last night.

Another gap in time? No—just fatigue making me forgetful. It has to be.

I refuse to consider the alternative.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, noticing the lingering scent of my soap, as if I’d recently scrubbed every inch of my body with obsessive thoroughness. I glance over at the bathroom, the door stands ajar, towel hung haphazardly on the rack, shower stall still beaded with moisture. Evidence of use I have no memory of.

The events of the past week swirl through my mind like leaves caught in the wind—following Marco to his house in the hills, the confrontation, the rage that overtook me.

Then the blankness.

The nothing.

Just waking up covered in his blood, surrounded by carnage I had no memory of creating.

I’d buried him in the canyons off Mulholland Drive, my hands steady despite the horror coursing through me. Not my first grave, thanks to the war, but the first I’d dug for a man I’d killed outside of combat.

The guilt should be crushing me. Instead, I feel a strange, detached unease—as if the actions were committed by someone else, someone wearing my skin.

Because it was someone else who had murdered Marco, wasn’t it?

I mean, it wasn’t me .

It can’t be.

I can’t be…a monster.

What I need are answers. Professional help. These blackouts are getting worse, the gaps in my memory growing larger.

And now people are dying during those gaps.

I dress quickly, deciding to skip breakfast. Food holds little appeal lately, though I’m consumed by a different kind of hunger I can’t name. By nine, I’m sitting in Dr. Harold Wheeler’s waiting room, an austere space that smells of antiseptic and old magazines.

Wheeler was the battalion doctor during my time in Europe. He’s seen the worst of what war does to a man’s mind—the thousand-yard stares, the night terrors, the violent outbursts. If anyone can make sense of what’s happening to me, it’s him.

“Victor Callahan,” he says, when I’m finally ushered into his office, rising from behind his desk to shake my hand. “Been a while. What brings you in today?”

I take the offered seat, studying the man before me. Wheeler looks older than I remember—hair grayer, face more lined. The war aged all of us, I suppose.

“I’ve been having blackouts,” I admit. “Losing time. Hours, sometimes a full day. No memory of where I went or what I did.”

Wheeler’s expression doesn’t change as he reaches for his notepad, which I find relieving. “How long has this been happening?”

“A few weeks. Getting worse.” I hesitate, then add, “Started around my thirty-fifth birthday.”

He nods, making a note. “Any other symptoms? Headaches? Visual disturbances? Changes in appetite?”

“All of the above. Light bothers me sometimes, sounds seem louder. Food doesn’t taste right anymore.” I don’t mention the blood I vomited after finding Marco, the metallic taste that lingers in my mouth after each episode.

Wheeler listens, his pen scratching against paper. When I finish, he leans back in his chair, studying me.

“Combat fatigue can manifest in unusual ways,” he says finally. “Delayed onset isn’t uncommon, especially when triggered by stress.”

“It’s been eight years since the war,” I point out.

“But you also lost your wife as well.”

I swallow that down. “I’ve grieved her. I’ve moved on.”

“So you say. The mind is complicated, Victor. Sometimes it holds things at bay until it can’t anymore.” He sets down his pen. “What’s your caseload like? Still working yourself to the bone?”

“I’ve taken on a high-profile case. The Black Dahlia murder.”

Wheeler’s eyebrows lift. “No wonder you’re having episodes. The whole city’s on edge about that one. Stress can do terrible things to a man, especially one with your history.”

“So that’s your diagnosis? Stress?”

“For now.” He reaches into his desk drawer, withdrawing a small bottle of pills. “These might help with the anxiety, make it easier to sleep. But honestly? What you need is rest. Step back from the case. Have some fun. Take a vacation. Fall in love.”

I pocket the pills, knowing I won’t take them. Dulling my senses seems dangerous right now, when I need every faculty sharp.

“Thanks, Doc,” I say, rising to leave.

He stops me at the door. “Victor. If the blackouts continue, or if you find yourself with…violent impulses, come back immediately. There are treatments, facilities that can help.”

The warning in his eyes is clear. He thinks I’m at risk of snapping, of becoming one of those veterans who make the papers for all the wrong reasons. If he only knew what I’ve already done.

Back at my apartment, I sit by the phone, staring at it like it might bite. I should call Norma, check in at the office. I should call Coleman, see if Marco’s disappearance has been reported yet. Instead, I find myself dialing Lena’s number, my guilt be damned.

She answers on the third ring, her voice sending an electric current down my spine—that same voice that had cried out my name in last night’s dream.

“Hello?”

“It’s Callahan,” I say, my voice sounding rough.

She lets out a shaky exhale, then: “I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“I know. I got your messages.” Three of them, all asking me to call, each more urgent than the last. “I’ve been…following leads.”

“We need to talk,” she says, and something in her tone sets my nerves on edge. No one ever likes to hear that phrase. “Can you meet me?”

“When?”

“Tonight. Seven p.m. Drinks at Hotel Culver City.”

I check my watch. Just past noon. “I’ll be there.”

“Victor,” she says, using my first name for the first time that I can recall. “Be careful coming over. You might be watched. Mickey’s people are looking for Marco. He’s…missing.”

So it’s begun. The search for the missing enforcer.

“I’ll be careful,” I promise.

“Good.” Another pause. “And Callahan? I’m glad you’re alright.”

The line clicks dead before I can respond, leaving me with the unsettling impression that she knows more than she’s letting on. Does she suspect me? Has she somehow pieced together what happened to Marco?

I dress carefully—fresh shirt, tie, my second-best suit. The gun goes into its shoulder holster, a comforting weight beneath my jacket. I check my reflection in the mirror, noting the dark circles under my eyes, the hollowness in my cheeks. I look like a man hanging on by his fingernails.

I feel like one too.

The Culver Hotel rises like a flatiron from its triangular lot, six stories of Renaissance Revival architecture that once housed the likes of Clark Gable and Joan Crawford and the entire cast of the Wizard of Oz. Now it caters to a more modest clientele—traveling businessmen, minor celebrities from the nearby Culver Studios, people who want discretion without ostentation.

When I arrive, Lena is already seated in the hotel bar at a table by the fireplace, a glass of something amber before her. She wears a dark green dress that makes her red hair seem even more vibrant as it waves down her back, a slash of crimson lipstick the only other color in her ensemble.

She looks like sin personified.

“You came,” she says as I slide into the seat opposite her.

“You asked nicely.” I signal the waiter for a whiskey. “How are you?”

She studies me, those dark eyes seeming to look straight through me. “You don’t remember, do you?”

A chill runs down my spine. “Remember what?”

The waiter arrives with my drink, interrupting whatever she was about to say. When he leaves, Lena leans forward, her voice dropping to just above a whisper.

“Last night. You came to my apartment.”

For a moment, I think she’s playing some strange game. Then the implication hits me like a fist to the gut. Another blackout. Another gap in my memory.

“What happened?” I ask, dreading the answer.

She hesitates, a flush creeping up her neck. “You were…not yourself. Covered in blood. You seemed confused, almost feral.”

My mind races, cataloguing the evidence—the damp shower, the inexplicable cleanliness of my body, the lingering dream of her beneath me.

“Did I hurt you?” The question escapes before I can stop it, raw with fear.

“No,” she says quickly. “No, you didn’t hurt me. Not really. We…” She looks away, the flush deepening. “We were together.”

My brows raise.

“You came to fuck me,” she adds, as if I didn’t pick up what she was putting down. “You fucked my brains out, broke my damn bed, and you left as quickly as you appeared.”

I down my whiskey in one swallow, the burn doing nothing to ease the cold dread spreading through me. “I don’t remember any of it. Wish I did, I can promise you that. But it’s just like with Marco.”

Her gaze narrows. “What about Marco?” she asks slowly.

Too late, I realize my mistake. “Nothing. I just meant?—”

“Don’t lie to me, Callahan,” she says softly. “I think we’re past that, don’t you?”

She’s right. Whatever is happening to me, whatever I did during those lost hours, Lena is somehow entangled in it all. Has been since the beginning.

“I followed him home after our, well, confrontation at your apartment,” I admit, keeping my voice low, glad that we’re hidden from the rest of the bar by the pillar. “I was angry. I wanted to threaten him, make sure he left you alone.”

“And?” she prompts when I fall silent.

“And I blacked out. When I came to, I was on my knees in his study, covered in his blood. He was…” I can’t bring myself to describe the barbarity I found. “He was dead. Torn apart like an animal got to him.”

Lena’s face remains carefully neutral, but her eyes give her away—not shocked, not horrified. Almost as if she was expecting this confession.

Have I been that obvious? Is what I am so obvious to everyone but me?

“I buried him in the hills,” I continue, the words tumbling out now that I’ve started. “Cleaned up the scene as best I could. I don’t know what happened, how I could have done that to him, but I must have. There was no one else there.”

She reaches across the table, her cool fingers closing over mine. “You don’t understand what’s happening to you. But I do. I can help you, if you’ll let me.”

Before I can ask what she means, the bar’s door by the patio swings open. Two men enter—beefy, suited, with the hard eyes and broken noses of career thugs. Cohen’s men. The taller one scans the room, his gaze stopping on Lena, narrowing in recognition.

“Keep talking,” I mutter to Lena, keeping my eyes on the men as they approach. “Act natural.”

She follows my lead, continuing our conversation as if nothing’s wrong. “It’s not your fault. You’re going through something that?—”

“Lookee, lookee, here,” the taller thug interrupts, stopping at our table. “Miss Reid. Mickey’s been searching for you.”

“Has he?” Lena replies coolly, nerves of steel. “I’ve been right where I always am. At the club, singing my sets. He knows where to find me.”

The second thug smirks, revealing a gold tooth. “Not always at the club, are you? Sometimes you’re entertaining private parties. Like your boy Marco. Before he disappeared.”

I tense, my other hand inching toward my holster. “The lady’s with me now. Whatever business you have with her can wait.”

“And who the fuck are you?” Gold Tooth demands.

“Victor Callahan. Private investigator.”

The taller thug’s expression shifts to something uglier. “The one asking questions about the Dahlia murder. The one seen leaving Marco’s place the night he vanished.”

My blood runs cold. Seen leaving Marco’s? By who? There hadn’t been anyone around when I left, unless they’re trying to trip me into a confession.

“I think you have me confused with someone else,” I say carefully.

“Don’t think so.” Tall Thug leans down, getting in my face. “Mickey wants to talk to both of you. Now.”

“We’re having a private conversation,” Lena interjects. “Tell Mickey I’ll stop by the club later.”

Gold Tooth grabs her arm, yanking her halfway out of her seat. “It wasn’t a request, sweetheart.”

I’m on my feet in an instant, but Lena beats me to it, twisting out of his grip with surprising strength.

“Don’t touch me,” she hisses, a dangerous edge entering her voice.

The tension in the bar ratchets up, other patrons edging away from the brewing confrontation. The bartender reaches for the phone, presumably to call security.

“Fine,” Gold Tooth says, smiling without warmth. “We’ll do this the hard way. You brought this on yourself, Red.”

It happens so fast I almost miss it—his hand disappearing into his jacket, emerging with a small glass vial. He flicks the stopper off and flings the contents directly into Lena’s face.

Acid.

She screams, hands flying to her face, the sound cutting through the murmur of the bar like a knife. I react without thinking, drawing my gun and putting a bullet between Gold Tooth’s eyes before he can reach for his own weapon.

The bar erupts into chaos—people screaming, diving for cover, glasses shattering as they’re knocked from tables. I turn to Lena, expecting to find her horrifically burned.

Instead, I see something impossible.

The skin of her face, which had begun to blister and redden and boil from the acid, is…healing. Regenerating before my eyes, the damaged tissue slowly knitting itself back together. By the time my brain processes what I’m seeing, her face is nearly unblemished, save for lingering redness and swelling.

Tall Thug sees it too, his eyes widening in shock. “What the fuck? What the fuck are you? A witch?”

His hand moves toward his jacket. Instinctively, I know I can’t let him leave, can’t let him tell Cohen or anyone else what we just witnessed. My gun swings toward him, finger tightening on the trigger.

He’s faster than I expect, drawing his own weapon in a smooth motion. But before either of us can fire, Lena is between us, moving with inhuman speed. She knocks his gun aside, the shot going wide, shattering a mirror behind the bar.

“Outside,” she says to me, her voice tight. “Now.”

I hesitate, looking at Tall Thug, who’s recovering his balance, bringing his gun back around.

“There’s no time,” Lena insists, grabbing my arm.

She’s right. Already, sirens wail in the distance, approaching fast. I follow her toward the service exit, but Tall Thug lunges after us, catching Lena’s dress. My gun comes up almost of its own accord, two shots catching him in the chest.

He drops like a stone, blood seeping across his shirt.

I stand frozen for a moment, staring at the second man I’ve killed in as many minutes. The bartender stares at me in terror from behind the bar, already reaching for the phone again.

Lena grabs my hand, pulling me through the back of the restaurant and through the service exit, across the next street and into a back alley that smells of garbage and urine. We run, her hand gripping mine with surprising strength, guiding me through a maze of narrow passages until we emerge onto a side street several blocks from the hotel.

She pulls me into a recessed doorway, both of us breathing hard despite the relatively short distance. Around us, the night continues as normal—cars passing, pedestrians walking unhurriedly along the sidewalk, oblivious to the bloodshed we’ve just left behind.

“What the hell just happened back there?” I demand, my voice barely above a whisper. “Your face—the acid should have burned you, but look at you. Look at you.” I reach out and grab her chin between my fingers, examining her in the dull light, surprised at how well I can see her. “You’re healed.”

She nods, wincing.

I squeeze her face a little harder, unable to comprehend any of what I saw. “You moved faster than any human could move.”

Something like resignation comes over her eyes until finally I release her.

“I think you know what happened,” she says quietly. “Part of you has always known, even if your conscious mind refused to accept it.”

“Known what?” I cry out softly, throwing out my arms as if God will finally bestow me with an answer to this mess.

“What I am.” She takes a deep breath, as if preparing for rejection. “I’m a vampire, Callahan. I was born this way, my abilities manifesting when I turned twenty-one. That’s why I can heal so quickly, why I’m stronger and faster than humans. That’s why I can compel people, most people anyway, except for you.”

I blink at her.

Vampire.

The word echoes in my mind, colliding with fragments of forgotten folklore, pulp fiction, and childhood nightmares.

Vampire.

The stuff of horror films and penny dreadfuls. Yet I’ve just witnessed the impossible with my own eyes—her face regenerating, her inhuman speed as she disarmed a trained thug.

“That’s insane,” I say, though without conviction.

“Is it?” She leans in closer, her scent—that distinctive jasmine—enveloping me, her eyes becoming darker and darker. “Haven’t you felt it from the beginning? The connection between us? The recognition?”

“Recognition of what?” My voice sounds distant to my own ears.

“Of your own kind.” She reaches up, touching my face with cool fingers, her gaze searching. “You’re a vampire too, Callahan.”

I blink at her, harpooned by her words.

“That’s what’s happening to you,” she goes on. “Why you’re having blackouts, why you killed Marco without remembering. You’re in transition, your true nature emerging at thirty-five, just as it does for males. But you never knew what you were…until now.”

The world tilts beneath my feet, reality shifting like quicksand. Memories flash through my mind—the taste of blood in my mouth after blackouts, the heightened senses, the hunger…the hunger.

“That’s not possible,” I whisper, but even as I say it, I know it’s true. Some deep, buried part of me recognizes the truth in her words, accepts it with a strange relief.

It explains everything. It explains the connection I felt to Lena from the first moment I saw her—recognition of another predator, another immortal walking among humans.

But no, no.

How the fuck can this be?

“I can help you understand what you are,” Lena says gently. “I have friends, other vampires who can teach you to control your hunger, your strength. Who can figure out how to bind yourself so you’re always in control. You don’t have to face this alone.”

Vampires. Other vampires. A society hidden within human society, invisible except to those who know where to look.

And I’m one of them.

Have always been one of them, though I never knew it.

“Did I kill Elizabeth Short?” The question escapes before I can stop it, the fear I’ve been carrying since my first blackout finally voiced.

Lena hesitates, then shakes her head. “At first that was my worry too. But I don’t think so. Her murder was a ritual, planned. We think it could be the work of other vampires—a Russian family called the Ivanovs. They might be the Europeans she talked about.”

“Other vampires,” I repeat, still struggling to accept the reality unfolding before me. “How many of you—of us—are there?”

“Not many, not compared to humans. We’re born, not made. Each generation smaller than the last.” She takes my hands in hers. “But none like you. None who didn’t know what they were until their awakening. It shouldn’t be possible, but if you were adopted…”

I think back to what little I know of my birth parents—adopted at age three, told only that they had some rare medical condition, nothing contagious. Had they known? Had they hidden me among humans for some reason, denied me the knowledge of my true nature? Didn’t they know one day this would happen?

“We need to go somewhere safe,” Lena says, glancing at the street. “The police might be looking for you after what happened at the hotel. And Cohen’s men won’t be far behind.”

I nod, still reeling from revelations that have shattered my understanding of myself, of the world. “Where?”

“I know a place. People who can help you. Help us both.” She squeezes my hands. “Do you trust me?”

I look at her—this woman who has somehow become the center of my existence in just a few short weeks. This woman who has just told me that everything I believed about myself was a lie. This woman who is, apparently, the same kind of creature that I am.

“Yes,” I say, surprising myself with the certainty in my voice. “I trust you.”

Relief washes over her face. “Then let’s go. There’s a lot you need to learn about what you are. And what we’re up against.”

As we step back onto the street, blending with other pedestrians as if we hadn’t just killed two men, hadn’t just upended the foundations of my existence, I realize that nothing will ever be the same.

I am not the man I thought I was.

The world is not what I believed it to be.

I am a predator walking among prey, a creature of night and blood and hunger.

A vampire.