Page 21 of Nocturne

20

CALLAHAN

T he Los Angeles Police Department smells like stale coffee, cigarettes, and desperation. I’ve spent enough time in these halls to know the rhythms—the way detectives hide their frustrations behind dark humor, the way the typewriters clack in mechanical symphony, the quiet sobs from the interview rooms where lives are unraveled question by question.

Today, though, everything is different.

Or rather, I am.

I catch fragments of whispered conversations from across the bullpen, detect the subtle scent of bourbon on Coleman’s breath from twenty feet away, hear the racing heartbeat of a suspect being questioned two rooms over. My senses have been dialed to eleven since yesterday’s revelation, and I still don’t know how to filter the onslaught of information.

Vampire .

The word still feels foreign, absurd. Like something from a dime-store novel or late-night horror picture.

Me, Victor Callahan.

A vampire.

A monster.

Your worst nightmare.

I leaf through the police reports at Coleman’s desk while he’s fetching coffee, keeping my movements casual despite the tension coiling in my gut. I nearly didn’t come today, too afraid that the cops would be looking for me for shooting those two men at the hotel last night. But I know staying away would only raise suspicions. Besides, I need more information, now that I know what I am. I’m looking for any unexplained deaths during my blackouts, any murders I might have committed while that… other part of me was in control.

A thin folder catches my eye. Jane Doe, found near Elysian Park three days ago. The same night I woke up on that park bench with blood in my mouth, dirt under my nails, and hours missing from my memory.

The crime scene photos are stark black and white, but I don’t need color to recognize the horror they depict. A woman, mid-twenties, found behind a stand of trees off one of the hiking trails. Deep lacerations on both wrists, throat torn open. Body almost completely drained of blood.

The coroner’s preliminary report suggests suicide followed by animal activity—coyotes, perhaps, drawn by the blood. But I know better. The cuts on her wrists don’t seem to be self-inflicted. And what animal leaves a body drained but otherwise unmolested?

As I stare at the photos, something shifts in my mind—a door unlocking, revealing fragments of memory I’d lost. I see the woman’s face, alive and wary as I approach her in the darkness. Feel her pulse beneath my fingers as she struggles. Taste the copper-rich flood of her blood as my teeth— my teeth —tear through the delicate skin of her throat.

My stomach lurches. I have to grab the edge of the desk to steady myself, knuckles white with strain.

I killed her . During my blackout, I hunted and killed a woman like some kind of predator. Which is exactly what I am, according to Abe and Lena. A predator designed by evolution or God or the devil to feed on human beings.

“Find something interesting?”

Coleman’s voice jars me back to the present. He sets a chipped mug of coffee in front of me, studying my face with careful attention.

“Just browsing,” I manage, closing the folder. “Anything new on the Short case?”

He sighs, lowering himself into his chair. “Nothing solid. Still interviewing suspects, but none seem to stick. All the confessions we’ve had so far are from a bunch of loons who think going to jail is worth the time in the spotlight. Brass is putting pressure on us to wrap it up, sweep it under the rug.”

“What’s the rush? It’s the biggest case this department has seen in years.”

“Exactly.” Coleman sips his coffee, grimacing at the bitterness that I can smell from here. “Too much attention. And there are…connections we’re not supposed to be looking into.”

“Cohen,” I say, not a question.

“Among others.” He sets his mug down, leaning forward. “Listen, Vic. I’ve known you a long time. Always respected your work, your integrity. So I’m going to be straight with you—you need to back off this case.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you poking around places you shouldn’t be. Maybe poking certain people you shouldn’t be.” His eyes narrow. “I’m talking about Marco Russo’s sudden disappearance.”

My pulse would be spiking if I were still entirely human. Instead, I feel an unnatural calm settle over me, instincts I don’t yet understand taking control.

“Marco’s missing?” I keep my voice neutral, my face unreadable.

“Cut the act, Vic. I heard on the grapevine you were seen leaving his house the night he vanished. And then there’s the incident at the Hotel Culver City yesterday. Two of Cohen’s men dead, one with a bullet between the eyes, the other in the heart. Witnesses describe a man matching your description.”

“Witnesses can be mistaken,” I say carefully.

“Sure they can.” Coleman doesn’t blink. “Just like the acid that was thrown at Lena Reid’s face. I’m sure that wasn’t her either. They must have seen some other ruby-haired jazz singer.”

I don’t say a word. Coleman watches me, disappointment evident in the lines of his face. We’ve worked together for years, built a relationship on mutual respect. Now I’m sitting across from him, lying by omission, harboring secrets he can’t begin to comprehend.

“You’re in trouble, my friend,” he says finally. “Deep trouble. Mickey is looking for you, and he’s not the kind who forgives and forgets.”

“Mickey Mouse?”

His stare could cut glass. “Whatever you’ve gotten yourself mixed up in, it’s not worth your life.”

“I appreciate the concern,” I tell him, and I mean it. “But I can handle myself.”

He snorts. “Like you handled Marco Russo?”

“I didn’t come here to discuss any of Cohen’s men,” I say, changing tack. “I’m still investigating Elizabeth Short’s murder, regardless of who wants the case closed. The paid-for bureaucrats didn’t hire me. Virginia West did.”

“Then I’d say you’re more of a fool than I took you for. A stubborn fool.”

“You’re not wrong about that,” I say, standing up and putting on my hat. “I should go.”

Coleman rises too, extending his hand. I take it automatically, giving it a squeeze. Enough that Coleman winces and I have to drop it quickly.

“Be careful, Vic,” he says, and I hear the genuine concern beneath the warning. “Whatever’s going on with you…just be careful.”

Outside the station, the California sun feels harsher than it used to, each ray an assault on my skin that seems to be getting more sensitive with each day. I pull down the brim of my fedora, shielding my eyes. According to Abe, I’ll eventually adjust to daylight, learn to manage the annoyance the sun can bring, but for now, it’s just one more reminder of what I’ve become.

I light a cigarette, the familiar motion calming, relieved that it still tastes as good as before, if not better. My thoughts turn to Lena, waiting back at the colony in Malibu. I’d left at dawn while she was still sleeping, needing space to process everything that had happened.

She’d wanted me last night. I could smell her desire, hear the quickening of her pulse when our eyes met. But I’d refused her advances, retreated to the guest room Abe provided. Was I a coward? Maybe. But how could I lose myself in her body when I was still trying to find myself in this new, monstrous skin?

And yet I crave her. Not just physically, but completely. Her guidance, her understanding, the way she looks at me like I’m still worth something despite the blood on my hands.

I should return to her now, tell her what I’ve learned, plan our next move in this investigation that’s become more personal than either of us anticipated.

I’m halfway to my car when I sense it—eyes watching me. I turn slowly, scanning the crowded sidewalk, and that’s when I see her.

She stands apart from the bustling pedestrians, stillness in a sea of motion. Tall, slender, dark hair swept into an elegant chignon that emphasizes the aristocratic angles of her face. She wears a tailored skirt suit in deep burgundy, the color of dried blood, and as our eyes meet across the distance, I feel something tug at the edges of my mind—recognition, but not memory.

She approaches with confident grace, each step deliberate, predatory. As she draws closer, I catch her scent—expensive perfume and something antiseptic. She’s beautiful but there’s something about her that brings about faint revulsion.

“Mr. Callahan,” she says, her voice liquid velvet wrapped around a subtle European accent. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Do I know you?” I ask, though something in me already knows the answer.

“Not really.” Her smile is dazzling, perfect. Too perfect. “But I know you. I knew Elizabeth Short as well.”

My attention sharpens. “You knew Elizabeth?”

“Intimately.” The word carries weight, suggestion. “I have information about her death. Information you won’t find in police reports or coroner’s notes.”

I should be suspicious. Should question how she found me, why she’s approaching me now. But something about her holds my focus, clouds my judgment. I find myself nodding, listening as she continues.

“Not here,” she says, glancing around with cool blue eyes. “Somewhere private. I can show you evidence that will change everything you think you know about Elizabeth’s murder.”

Warning bells sound dimly in the back of my mind, but they’re muffled, distant. I know I should call Lena, should tell someone where I’m going, but the thought slips away as quickly as it forms.