Page 25 of Nocturne

24

LENA

T he address we have for Jeanne French’s apartment is in a modest neighborhood in West Los Angeles, the kind of place where working women share rent to afford the California sunshine. The building is a two-story stucco affair with a small courtyard, potted geraniums adding splashes of color to an otherwise faded exterior.

“You sure about this?” I ask as Callahan parks the car across the street. The afternoon sun makes me squint despite my dark, heart-shaped glasses. Even with my vampire constitution, direct sunlight can be nuisance at times, especially when I’m stressed. “Coleman said they already interviewed the roommate.”

“And they were looking for her jealous ex-husband or a random attacker,” Callahan replies, killing the engine. “Not European vampires with a taste for ritual blood magic.”

I nod, adjusting the scarf covering my hair. Despite the unlikelihood of Cohen’s men recognizing me in this quiet neighborhood, we’re taking no chances. The last twenty-four hours have taught us both that danger lurks everywhere, ready to cloud our minds at the snap of its fingers.

As we climb the stairs to apartment 2B, I notice how Callahan positions himself slightly ahead of me—protective, instinctive. The gesture would have irritated me from anyone else, this implied assumption of my vulnerability. From him, it stirs something deeper, a recognition of the bond forming between us.

Valtu was right. I’m falling for him and falling hard. And it’s not just that he’s good in bed, that when I come I’ve never felt so alive, that when my skin is pressed against his I feel plugged in and connected. It’s that when I’m with him, I finally feel seen. Like I don’t have to hide, don’t have to wear the lipstick and the smile. I can just be me …and he likes what he sees.

Maybe one day he’ll even love it.

Maybe he’ll even love me.

Callahan knocks firmly on the door. A woman in her early forties answers, with tired eyes and hair pulled back in a practical bun. She wears a nurse’s uniform, clearly just home from a shift at the hospital.

“Margaret Wilson?” Callahan asks, showing his credentials. “Victor Callahan, private investigator. This is my associate, Miss Reid. We’d like to ask you some questions about Jeanne French.”

Margaret’s expression tightens. “The police already took my statement.”

“We’re working with the family,” I say smoothly, adding just a hint of compulsion to my voice—not enough to control, just enough to soothe her wariness. “Just trying to understand what happened to Jeanne. May we come in?”

She steps back, gesturing us inside. The apartment is neat but spartan, furnished with mismatched pieces. Photographs on the mantle show two women in their nursing uniforms, arms around each other’s shoulders, smiling against backdrops of different hospitals.

“You were friends for a long time,” Callahan observes, nodding toward the pictures.

Margaret’s composure cracks slightly. “Since training. We served in the South Pacific together during the war.” She gestures for us to sit on a worn sofa while she takes the armchair opposite. “What do you want to know that I haven’t already told the police?”

“We’re particularly interested in Jeanne’s relationships,” Callahan begins carefully. “Anyone new in her life recently, especially in the last few months.”

Margaret’s eyes narrow. “You’re not really with the family, are you? Jeanne’s sister wouldn’t send private investigators. She can barely afford the funeral.”

Callahan and I exchange glances. “No,” he admits. “Not on behalf of her family. We’re investigating a series of deaths that may be connected to Jeanne’s murder. The police are treating it as an isolated incident, but we have reason to believe there’s more to it.”

“What kind of more?” Margaret asks, sitting up straighter, her professional caution giving way to curiosity.

“That remains to be seen,” I say, leaning forward. “Was Jeanne seeing anyone recently? Someone new, someone different?”

Margaret hesitates, then sighs. “There was someone. She wouldn’t tell me much about him—just that he was from somewhere in Europe. Eastern Europe I think.”

I feel Callahan tense beside me. “Russian?” he asks.

“She never said specifically. But she started seeing him about a month ago. Just after Christmas. Would come home late, wearing clothes I knew she couldn’t afford on a nurse’s salary. Expendable income isn’t really our bag, you know.” Margaret’s mouth tightens. “I told her to be careful. Men who shower you with gifts usually want something in return.”

“Did you ever meet him?” I ask, fighting to keep my voice steady.

“No. He never came here. Always picked her up on the corner, or they met somewhere.” Margaret stands, moving to a small writing desk in the corner. She returns with a small item in her palm. “I found this in her coat pocket after she…after they found her body.”

She places a matchbook on the coffee table between us. The red cover bears a simple clover embossed in gold, with no address or other information.

“She’d been going to this place,” Margaret continues. “Crimson Clover. Some kind of exclusive club in San Pedro. I only know because she mentioned it was near or in Shanghai Reds—we used to go there sometimes during the war to meet sailors. Said it was hidden, that you needed to know someone to get in. She felt all la-dee-da about it.”

Callahan picks up the matchbook, turning it over in his hand. His fingers are steady, but I can sense the tension radiating from him—the controlled excitement of a hunter finding a trail. This is him in his element and I can’t look away.

“Did she mention anything else?” Callahan presses. “Any names, places, strange occurrences?”

Margaret pauses, considering. “She did seem…different the last few weeks. More secretive. And there was one odd thing—I saw her carrying a vial of her own blood.”

I stiffen.

“Her blood ?” Callahan echoes.

“She said her new friend was fascinated by her rare blood type. Into that horoscope hocus-pocus I guess. I told her it was bizarre, but she laughed it off. Said it was just an eccentricity.”

My stomach turns. It’s possible the Ivanovs weren’t just selecting victims with AB negative blood—they were collecting samples, perhaps testing compatibility for their ritual.

“When was the last time you saw her?” I ask.

“Two nights ago. She dressed up, said she was meeting him at the club.” She nods at the matchbook. “She seemed excited. Almost giddy. Said he was introducing her to people who could change her life.”

Change her life? End it, more like.

“Thank you, Ms. Wilson,” Callahan says, standing. “You’ve been very helpful.”

“Will finding this man help catch Jeanne’s killer?” she asks.

Callahan meets her gaze directly. “I believe he is Jeanne’s killer.”

Her face pales. “Oh dear. Well. You better make him pay.”

“We intend to,” I promise, anger rising in me like a tide. Another woman used and discarded by the Ivanovs, another life cut short for their arcane purposes, ones that we still don’t understand.

As we leave the apartment, Callahan swears under his breath, then touches my arm lightly, directing my attention across the street. A black sedan is parked there that wasn’t present when we arrived. Two men sit in the front, faces obscured but postures unmistakably alert.

“We’ve got company,” he murmurs as we descend the stairs.

My heart sinks. Isn’t anywhere safe now? “Who this time?”

“Most likely Cohen’s goons.” His hand rests at the small of my back, guiding me toward our car. “Walk normally. Let’s not tip them off that we’ve spotted them.”

We reach Callahan’s Oldsmobile and climb in, his movements deliberately unhurried as he starts the engine and pulls away from the curb. In the side mirror, I see the sedan start up and follow at a discreet distance.

“They’re not even trying to be subtle,” I observe.

“They’re not trying to hide—they’re trying to intimidate.” Callahan makes a right turn onto Wilshire Boulevard, the sedan maintaining its position three car lengths back. “Or they’re herding us.”

“Toward what?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” He makes another turn, this time without signaling, hoping to lose them. The sedan follows smoothly, gaining ground.

I reach over, my hand finding his on the gearshift. His skin is warm against mine, the connection grounding despite the tension building in the car. “What’s the plan?”

“Find somewhere public, but not too public. Confront them before they can choose the battleground.” He squeezes my hand briefly before returning his full attention to the road. “You up for a fight, kitten?”

A small smile finds its way to my lips despite everything. “You know I can scratch.”

Callahan drives toward a semi-industrial area where warehouses and small factories stand adjacent to empty lots. The streets are deserted, most workers having headed home. He pulls into the parking lot of an abandoned canning factory, the sedan following as expected.

As we exit our car, the sedan stops about thirty feet away. Two men emerge, then a third from the back seat.

“I’ll take the lead,” Callahan murmurs, positioning himself slightly ahead of me.

“We face them together,” I counter, stepping up beside him. This isn’t his fight alone—it’s ours.

One of the men calls out, “Callahan! Mr. Cohen wants a word with you and the broad.”

“Tell Cohen to make an appointment,” Callahan calls back, his voice steady.

I assess our opponents—two standard-issue thugs flanking a third man who immediately sets off warning bells in my mind. He’s taller than the others, leaner, with a fluid grace to his movements that speaks of predatory confidence. Something about him seems…off.

The third man steps forward. “Ms. Reid,” he says, his voice carrying a trace of accent. “We’ve never met formally. I’m Konstantin. Mr. Cohen has sent me specifically to escort you.”

“Lucky me,” I reply, studying him carefully. There’s something familiar about him, though I’m certain we’ve never met. And despite my enhanced senses, I can’t detect anything vampiric about him. Either he’s not a vampire or he has the same magic as the Ivanov gals.

“We’re not going anywhere with you,” Callahan states flatly.

Konstantin smiles, the expression never reaching his strange purple-gray eyes. “Oh. I think you will.”

He moves with sudden, blinding speed—faster than any human should be able to move. His fist connects with Callahan’s jaw, sending him staggering backward.

Vampire!

My instincts scream it even as my eyes deny the evidence. The man moves too quickly, strikes too hard to be human, but maintains a careful facade that would fool most observers.

The other two goons turn on me. Standard muscle, these two—humans working for Cohen who have no idea what their colleague truly is. I reach for the first one, pushing my will against his mind.

“Stop,” I command, letting my compulsion flow.

His eyes glaze over momentarily, his advance halting mid-step. The second man doesn’t give me time to work the same trick, charging forward with a bellow.

I sidestep his rush, using his momentum against him. My foot connects with the back of his knee as he passes, sending him crashing to the pavement. Before he can recover, I deliver a precise strike to his temple—enough force to knock him unconscious without causing permanent damage.

The first goon shakes off my compulsion faster than I expected, pulling a switchblade from his pocket. The steel glints in the fading light as he slashes toward my midsection.

I dance backward, avoiding the blade by inches. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Callahan still grappling Konstantin, his movements controlled despite the chaos surrounding us, while the thug I knocked out springs back to life, running at him.

I turn to see the knife-wielder lunging again. This time, I grab his wrist, twisting until the weapon clatters to the ground. He howls in pain as something snaps in his arm. I follow with a decisive blow to his sternum that knocks the wind from his lungs, then a sweeping kick that takes his legs out from under him. His head strikes the pavement with a dull thud, and he lies still.

Callahan dispatches the other thug with similar efficiency, a series of precise strikes that speak to his boxing background, similar to how he beat up Marco. The human thug never stood a chance against Callahan’s enhanced strength and speed, even if Callahan was holding back to maintain the illusion of humanity.

That leaves only Konstantin, who watches our handiwork with calculating eyes.

“Impressive,” he says, clapping slowly, a gold watch jingling. “You work well together.” His gaze shifts between us, assessing. “But you’re still outmatched.”

He moves again, faster than before, appearing beside me before either of us can react. His hand closes around my throat, lifting me off the ground with effortless strength. The careful human facade drops away—I feel the cold, undeniable presence of ancient vampire power radiating from him.

“Let her go,” Callahan growls, tension vibrating through his body.

“Or what, fledgling?” Konstantin’s grip tightens. “You’ve barely begun to understand what you are.”

Callahan’s eyes darken, pupils expanding until they swallow the blue. The transformation seems intentional, directed.

“Last chance,” Callahan warns, his voice dropping to a register I’ve never heard before.

Konstantin laughs. “You don’t even know who you are, what bloodline you carry?—”

Callahan moves with shocking speed, driving his fist into Konstantin’s side with enough force that ribs crack. Konstantin drops me, momentarily stunned.

I roll away, gasping. When I look up, Callahan and Konstantin are locked in combat, moving almost too fast for human eyes to track. Konstantin is stronger, more experienced, but Callahan fights with desperate intensity.

Konstantin catches Callahan with a blow that sends him crashing into our car. The metal crumples, but Callahan is up instantly, blood streaming from a cut. It doesn’t heal as quickly as mine do.

“Enough playing,” Konstantin snarls, his mask of humanity falling away completely. He withdraws a curved dagger that gleams unnaturally blue.

“The blade of mordernes,” I gasp. “Callahan, be careful?—”

Too late. The blade slashes across Callahan’s chest, tearing through shirt and skin. Unlike a normal wound, this one doesn’t immediately heal. Callahan staggers back, shock and pain registering on his face.

“First lesson,” Konstantin says. “Whoever holds this blade, wins.”

Callahan recovers quickly, adjusting his stance. There’s calculation in his eyes—the detective analyzing, finding weakness. There’s no time to tell him that the blade is what witches use specifically to slay vampires. They still have to be driven into our hearts, but even surface wounds can cause damage.

And because Callahan is only partly vampire, he can’t afford to get injured.

Konstantin strikes again. This time Callahan catches his wrist. They struggle for control of the knife, locked in a contest of raw strength.

To my amazement, Callahan begins to gain the upper hand. Konstantin’s expression shifts from confidence to confusion, then concern. Whatever vampire blood flows in Callahan’s veins, it carries power that rivals Konstantin’s primordial strength.

Callahan forces the knife from Konstantin’s grip and drives his fist into the vampire’s face with bone-crushing force, following with a series of blows too fast to track.

Konstantin staggers back, blood streaming from his face. “What are you?” he hisses. “You can’t be this strong, not this young?—”

I move to join the fight, flanking Konstantin from the opposite side. Together, Callahan and I press our advantage, driving the Cohen vampire back. For a moment, victory seems within reach.

In the distance, sirens wail, growing louder with each second.

Konstantin’s eyes narrow at the sound. With a snarl of frustration, he leaps backward with inhuman agility, putting distance between us.

“This isn’t over,” he says, wiping blood from his mouth. “You’re interfering with forces beyond your understanding. They will open the gateway, one way or another.”

“The gateway,” I repeat. “The Ivanovs. Are you working for them or Cohen?”

Konstantin’s lips curl into a smile despite his battered face. “I work for myself.”

Before we can stop him, Konstantin turns and sprints away with supernatural speed, disappearing into the shadows between buildings.

“We need to go,” I urge, touching Callahan’s arm. “The police are coming.”

Callahan stares after Konstantin for a long moment, then nods. We run for our damaged car. The engine sputters but starts, and Callahan pulls away, tires squealing.

“What did he mean?” I ask as we speed away, taking side streets to avoid the approaching police. “About the gateway.”

Callahan’s hands are tight on the steering wheel. The mordernes wound across his chest hasn’t healed but at least it’s stopped bleeding. “I don’t know,” he admits. “But I think we’re running out of time.”

“I think you’re right. We need to tell Abe.”

“We’ll go back to the hotel and check-out, get a new room somewhere else,” he says. “Call Abe and fill him in. We should rest, but I want to head to San Pedro tomorrow night. See if we can find this special club French went to. This Crimson Clover.”

I look him over, warmth spreading in my chest. “That was different back there,” I say quietly. “The way you fought. It wasn’t like before, when you beat up Marco.”

“No,” he says, brows furrowed as he squints into the sun. “When I fought Marco, that was all me. All boxer, rising up. Fighting this purple-eyed freak? It was like the boxer in me melded with the vampire. I wasn’t transformed but there was…integration of some kind.”

“Integration,” I muse. “That’s progress.”

“Yeah. Well, let’s hope it keeps going in that direction. We’re going to need all the luck we can get.”