Page 26 of Nocturne
25
LENA
T he Desert Palm Motel sits on the outskirts of Los Angeles between the glittering city and the docks of San Pedro, the kind of place that takes cash with no questions. The neon vacancy sign flickers fitfully, bathing the parking lot in intermittent pink light. It’s the sort of establishment that caters to illicit affairs and people on the run—both categories apply to us now.
Callahan pays for the room at the end of the single-story structure, furthest from the office and closest to the exit. The clerk pockets the cash and slides a key toward us, barely looking up from his newspaper. Jeanne French’s body and the headline DID THE BLACK DAHLIA KILLER STRIKE AGAIN? are splashed across the front pages.
The room itself is predictable—cheap wood paneling, faded floral bedspreads, and the lingering smell of cigarettes despite the NO SMOKING sign on the door. But it has what matters most right now: anonymity.
“Home sweet home,” I say, dropping our hastily packed bag onto the dresser. “Can’t help but notice the condition of our hotel rooms keep going down.”
“The price you pay for discretion,” Callahan says, securing the door and drawing the curtains tight before switching on the bedside lamp. “Which isn’t much.”
The wound across his chest has nearly healed, but the pallor of his skin concerns me. He hasn’t fed properly since his transition began—only whatever blood he took during his blackouts, and we have no way of knowing how much that was, how sustainable. With his injury, he’s going to need more.
He catches me watching him in the mirror as he removes his torn shirt. “What?”
“You’re pale,” I say. “Weaker than you should be.”
“I’m fine.” He examines the fading wound with clinical detachment, poking at it.
“You’re not.” I move closer. “You fought an ancient vampire today and held your own, but it took more out of you than you’re admitting. You need to feed.”
He stiffens. “I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
His eyes meet mine in the mirror, conflicted and stubborn. “I won’t hunt someone. I won’t hurt them.”
“I’m not suggesting that.” I turn him gently to face me. “There are other ways.”
I roll up my sleeve, exposing my wrist. His eyes fix on the pale skin there, at the dark blue veins, his pupils dilating slightly.
“No.” He takes a step back. “I could hurt you.”
“You won’t.” I hold his gaze steadily. “Remember what Abe told you? Vampires can feed from each other. It’s not as sustaining as human blood, but it helps. And it’s useful in other ways. As a way to connect.” I pause, feeling my face flush. “And I’ve heard it feels good too.”
Something shifts in his expression—curiosity warring with resistance.
“You’ve never done it?”
“No, not directly from a vampire. And I’ve never had one feed from me.”
His nostrils flare, the muscle in his jaw stiffening. I know he loves the idea of being the first when it comes to me. That need of his to claim.
“What if I lose control? What if that part of me takes over?”
“Then I’ll stop you.” I step closer again. “I’m not a weakling Callahan. You’ve seen me fight.”
I sit on the edge of the bed, patting the space beside me. After a moment’s hesitation, he joins me, his weight causing the rusted springs to protest.
“I’ll show you how,” I say softly. “How to take what you need without causing harm.”
I extend my wrist toward him. He stares at it like it might burn him.
“It’s not just about feeding,” I explain. “It’s about control. Integration, as you said. Embracing what you are without letting it consume you.”
I say this, as if I didn’t completely lose control when I was feeding on the child murderer. He doesn’t need to know that, though.
His fingers are cool as they take my hand, lifting it up to his face. He studies my veins with the same intense focus he brings to crime scenes and witness statements.
“What do I do?” he asks, voice rough with hunger he’s trying to deny.
“Use your instincts,” I tell him. “But stay present. Don’t let the hunger think for you.”
He brings my wrist to his lips, hesitant at first. I feel his breath, warm against my skin, then the slight scrape of teeth—not yet fangs, but getting there. His eyes close as he inhales deeply, taking in my scent.
When they open again, something has changed. His pupils have expanded, turning red, all but eclipsing the blue. His incisors have lengthened, becoming the fangs he needs.
“That’s it,” I encourage. “Don’t fight it. Control it.”
He doesn’t rush, though I can sense the hunger in him building. Instead, his tongue traces the veins at my wrist, tasting the salt of my skin. The contact sends electricity down my spine, more intimate than it has any right to be. I have to bite back a moan.
When his fangs finally pierce my skin, the sting is brief and quickly replaced by a sensation like warm honey flowing through my veins. My breath catches in my throat. Feeding between vampires is different than taking human blood—it creates a feedback loop of sensation, pleasure multiplied and reflected between giver and receiver.
Callahan makes a sound low in his throat, surprised and hungry at once. His grip tightens on my arm as he draws the first mouthful of blood, his eyes meeting mine with startled intensity. He’s feeling it too—the connection forming between us, more primal than words.
I let him take three deep pulls before gently but firmly extracting my wrist. “Enough for now,” I say, my voice unsteady despite my attempt at composure. “You learn limits first.”
He looks dazed, my blood staining his lips crimson. The color has already returned to his face, the wound now completely healed. His eyes are still dark with hunger—for blood, for sex too—but there’s awareness there. He hasn’t lost himself to it.
“How do you feel?” I ask.
“Alive,” he whispers hoarsely. The word hangs between us, heavy with meaning. Then, with careful movements, he takes my wrist again, his tongue gently lapping the puncture wounds until they close under his ministrations. The gesture is meant to be practical but it sends another shiver through me.
“Your turn,” he says, rolling up his sleeve to expose his forearm.
The offer startles me. “You don’t have to?—”
“I want to.” His eyes hold mine, steady and certain. “And I want you to. If this is about connection, it should go both ways.”
I take his offered arm, feeling the strength in the corded muscles beneath my fingers. Unlike his hesitation, I know exactly what I’m doing, what I want. My fangs descend smoothly, a familiar pressure against my lips.
I don’t tease as he did. I strike precisely, my fangs sinking into the vein at his wrist with practiced accuracy. He cries out softly as his blood floods my mouth, and I nearly gasp at the taste—richer, more potent than any blood I’ve sampled before. It’s almost as if I can sense time passing, centuries, in each swallow. There’s something primordial in it, something powerful that belies his newborn status.
Callahan’s free hand comes up to cradle the back of my head, not forcing or restraining, just maintaining contact. I drink steadily, matching what he took from me, though I could easily take more. I want more. His blood sings in my veins, a heady mixture of power and connection that makes my head swim.
When I withdraw, carefully sealing the wounds with my tongue as he did mine, our eyes meet with an intensity that crackles. Something fundamental has shifted between us—a trust established, a boundary crossed, a connection forged that can’t be undone.
For a moment, we simply exist in that connection, neither moving nor speaking. Then, with infinite slowness, his hand rises to my face, thumb tracing my lower lip where a drop of his blood remains. I catch the pad of his thumb between my teeth, gently, a tease and a promise.
“Lena,” he says, my name a question and an answer all at once.
I don’t respond with words. Instead, I close the distance between us, my lips finding his in a kiss that tastes of copper and need. He responds immediately, arms encircling me with carefully restrained strength, as if he’s still afraid he might break me.
I press closer, showing rather than telling him that his concern is unnecessary. My fingers tangle in his hair, drawing him deeper into the kiss as I shift onto his lap. The taste of blood—his and mine—mingles on our tongues, heightening every sensation.
His hands move to my waist, steadying me as I straddle him. Even through layers of clothing, I can feel his arousal, matching the heat building within me. There’s an urgency to our movements now, a need that the blood exchange has only intensified.
We undress each other with impatient hands, pausing only to marvel at newly revealed skin. I trace the contours of his hard, wide chest where the wound has completely vanished, replaced by unblemished skin. His fingers trail along my spine, exploring each vertebra with reverent attention.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs. “So fucking beautiful. So very much mine.” He pauses, staring into my eyes. “You’re mine, aren’t you, kitten?”
“Never a doubt, detective.”
He smiles at that.
When we finally come together, skin against skin, the sensation is overwhelming. Every touch is amplified by the blood we’ve shared, creating echoes of pleasure that reverberate between us. I can feel his heartbeat in my veins, my pulse in his.
Our movements find a natural rhythm, neither rushed nor hesitant. His hands map my body with the same methodical thoroughness he brings to his investigations, discovering what makes me gasp, what makes me arch against him. I find myself equally exploratory, learning the topography of muscles that tell the story of his human life before this transformation, old scars that haven’t yet faded but will someday.
Time loses meaning as we lose ourselves in each other. The shabby motel room fades away, leaving only this connection, this moment. The hunger that drives us is more than physical, more than vampiric—it’s a recognition of something rare and precious, a completeness neither of us expected to find.
When release finally comes, it crashes through us both like a wave, my cry mingling with his groan as we cling to each other. For a moment, I swear I can feel his thoughts, his emotions, as if the blood exchange has opened a channel between our minds. Then it passes, leaving a warm afterglow of connection that feels almost tangible.
We lie tangled together afterward, neither speaking nor needing to. His fingers trace lazy patterns on my back while I rest my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat gradually slow. The hunger is sated for now, but my feelings for him are stronger than ever.
Damn it. Maybe I am in love after all.
What a terrifying thought.
“I never understood before,” Callahan says eventually, breaking the comfortable silence.
“Understood what?” I prop myself up on one elbow to see his handsome face.
“Why vampires in stories are always portrayed as sensual.” His fingers continue their idle patterns on my skin. “I thought it was just a literary device, romanticizing predators. But it’s not, is it? Everything is…more. Every sensation, every emotion, amplified.”
“Yes,” I agree. “That’s part of what makes the transition so difficult. Learning to live with that intensity without being overwhelmed by it.”
He considers this, his expression thoughtful. “Is that why you were drawn to singing? A way to channel that intensity?”
The question surprises me with its insight. “I never thought of it that way, but perhaps. When I’m performing, I can let some of that intensity out in a way humans accept, even celebrate.”
“You’re magnificent when you sing,” he says simply. “Like you become something more than yourself, something elemental.”
Gosh, it feels like butterflies are trying to fly out of my chest. He really sees me, doesn’t he?
“What about you?” I ask. “Is that why you became a detective? A way to channel your intensity into something productive?”
“Private investigator,” he corrects with a wry smile. Then he’s quiet for a moment, considering. “Maybe. I’ve always needed to understand things, to make sense of chaos. Now I wonder if that was my vampire nature all along, trying to understand the human world I was thrust into without explanation.”
I trace the line of his jaw, feeling the slight roughness of stubble beneath my fingertips. “Does it bother you? Learning what you are so late?”
“Yes. No.” He sighs. “I’m angry that I was denied knowledge of myself for so long. But I’m also grateful, in a way. I had a family who loved me, a normal childhood. If I’d known what was coming, would I have lived as fully in those years? Or would I have just been waiting for the change?”
“And now?” I ask. “How do you feel about what you are? About what we are?”
His hand catches mine, bringing my fingers to his lips. “I’m still figuring that out. But I know I don’t want to face it alone.”
The simple honesty of his answer touches something deep within me. For decades, I’ve maintained careful distance from humans, knowing any attachment would eventually lead to loss. With other vampires, I’ve been equally cautious, aware of the politics and power plays that often define our interactions, the fact that I really am so young compared to so many of them, and the feelings I have about the world might not matter to those who have seen it all before.
But with Callahan, those boundaries seem both necessary and impossible. We’re bound together now—by circumstance, by blood, by something I’m not yet ready to name but can no longer deny.
“You’re not alone,” I tell him, the words inadequate for the feeling behind them. “I’m here.”
He pulls me closer, his embrace both protective and seeking protection. We lie together in the quiet darkness, two young predators finding unexpected solace in each other’s arms.
Outside, the world waits with all its dangers. But for now, in this shabby motel room with its flickering neon light filtering through threadbare curtains, we’ve found a moment of peace. A moment that feels, against all odds, like coming home.