Page 27 of Nocturne

26

CALLAHAN

M orning comes on the back of a pale grey dawn, taking its time before the sun makes an appearance, the light coming through the thin motel curtains and painting the dingy room in swatches of gold. Lena is asleep beside me, her red hair spilling across the pillow like liquid fire, her face peaceful in a way it rarely is when she’s awake. I watch the slow rise and fall of her chest, marveling at how someone so powerful can appear so vulnerable in sleep.

Last night changed something between us. The blood exchange, the intimacy that followed—it forged a connection I can feel humming beneath my skin like a current. Even now, hours later, I swear I can sense her emotions, catch fragments of her dreams like whispers just beyond hearing.

I reach out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She stirs at my touch, her deep brown eyes fluttering open. For a moment, she seems disoriented, then her gaze finds mine and she smiles—a genuine smile that transforms her face with a softness few ever see. It makes my heart stutter.

“Morning,” she murmurs, voice husky with sleep.

“Morning, kitten,” I reply, letting my fingers trace the curve of her shoulder. “Sleep well?”

She stretches, catlike and graceful. “Better than I have in a long time.” She rolls toward me, propping herself on one elbow. “You?”

“Surprisingly, yes.” It’s true—for the first time since my transition began, I slept without nightmares, without the disorienting sensation of my vampire side taking over, without the fear that it might. Something about last night—the blood exchange, perhaps—has quieted the struggle between my dual natures.

Lena seems to read my thoughts. “Integration,” she says, her hand coming to rest over my heart. “The blood probably helps.”

“Is that normal?” I ask. “This…connection I can feel?”

She shakes her head slightly. “Not always. Blood sharing between vampires is intimate, yes, but…” Her delicate fingers swirl on my chest. “This feels strong. Maybe because you’re transitioning. Maybe because of your bloodline, whatever that may be.” A pause. “Or maybe it’s just…us.”

The implication hangs in the air between us, neither of us willing to name it yet. The idea of doing so scares me to death. Instead, I draw her closer, my lips finding hers in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly deepens. She responds eagerly, her body molding against mine with familiar heat.

Time becomes irrelevant as we lose ourselves in each other again, exploring with hands and mouths, still learning each other’s bodies. I discover a spot at the base of her throat that makes her arch beneath me when I graze it with my teeth. She finds a place along my V of my hips that sends shudders through my entire body when she traces it with her tongue.

Each touch feels amplified, electric—vampire senses making every sensation sharper, more intense. But beyond the physical, there’s something more profound happening between us. With each kiss, each caress, the barrier between us thins, allowing emotions to flow freely where words might fail.

When we finally come together, it’s with a synchronicity that feels almost supernatural. I can sense her pleasure as if it were my own, feel the building crescendo within her that mirrors my own approaching release. When she calls my name—my first name, the sound of it on her lips pushes me over the edge, her climax following seconds after mine.

We lie tangled together afterward, neither speaking nor needing to. The connection between us pulses with contentment, with a rightness I’ve never felt before—not with Catherine, not with anyone.

The thought should bring guilt, but doesn’t. Catherine was part of my human life, precious and irreplaceable. But this—this belongs to what I am now, what I’m becoming. A separate life, not lesser or greater, just different.

“What are you thinking?” Lena asks, her head resting on my chest.

“That I’ve never felt this way before,” I admit, the honesty easier than I expected. “This connected to someone.”

Her fingers trace my collarbone. “It’s the blood sharing. It creates bonds.”

“No,” I say, tilting her chin up to meet my eyes. “It’s more than that. It’s you, Lena.”

A vulnerability crosses her face, there and gone so quickly I might have missed it. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Callahan. You’re still new to this world, to what you are.”

“I may be new to being vampire,” I acknowledge, “but I know myself. This isn’t confusion or gratitude speaking.” I cup her face in my hand. “This is real. We, us? It’s all real.”

She doesn’t answer, but the way she turns her face into my palm, the soft kiss she places there, tells me she feels it too, even if she’s not ready to admit it.

We spend most of the morning and afternoon in that dingy room, fucking, dozing, talking in quiet voices about everything and nothing. She tells me about her childhood in Salem, Oregon, as a single child with a penchant for horseback riding and swing dancing. I share stories from my boxing days, my time in Military Intelligence during the war, careful anecdotes about my life with Catherine that don’t feel like betrayals to either woman.

It's a stolen day, a pause between dangers. Tonight we’ll go to San Pedro. We’ll continue the hunt. Today belongs to us alone.

Around midday, Lena slips from bed, wrapping herself in the threadbare sheet as she reaches for the telephone. “I should check in with Abe again,” she explains. “Let him know we’re still okay and on for tonight.”

I listen to her side of the conversation, able to hear Abe’s responses through the receiver with my enhanced hearing. Yesterday she filled him in on our encounter with Konstantin, the discovery of the matchbook, our plan to investigate the club tonight, plus everything that Katya and Tatiana Ivanov got up to. Well, not everything .

“You might want back up,” Abe says, his voice tinny through the line. “We can be prepared to intervene if necessary, though it’s better if we maintain distance initially. If the Ivanovs are there and spot us too soon, they may accelerate their plans.”

“Whatever those plans are,” Lena says with a sigh. “We have no idea what to expect. Might just be a dive bar for sailors.”

“But you know better than that,” he surmises.

“Yes. My women’s intuition tells me so. Well, if things go south, we’ll signal to you somehow.”

They discuss logistics for another few minutes before Lena hangs up, turning back to me with an even heavier exhale. “So much for our day of peace.”

I open my arms to her, and she returns willingly to the warmth of the bed, the warmth of us. “We still have hours,” I remind her. “And we’re going to need our strength for tonight.”

Her smile turns mischievous. “Is that your professional assessment, detective?”

“Absolutely,” I say with mock seriousness. “And I think we need to conserve energy by staying right here, in bed.”

Her laughter is swallowed by my kiss, and we lose ourselves in each other once more, making the most of the time we have left before nightfall brings us back to the darkness that waits beyond this room.

The neon signs of Shanghai Red casts a garish glow over the waterfront, reflecting in the oily black water of San Pedro Bay. The place is a sailor’s bar, rough and direct, promising cheap booze and questionable company to men just off ships from across the Pacific.

Lena and I approach cautiously, her arm linked through mine in a casual pose that belies our alertness. She’s dressed simply—dark trousers, white polka-dot blouse, hair pulled back beneath a scarf. I’m in a navy suit, the closest thing to evening wear I had in my go-bag. Already we stand out amongst the rougher patrons roaming the streets.

“Remember,” she murmurs as we near the entrance, “we’re just looking for a good time. Nothing suspicious.”

I nod, adjusting my posture to seem more relaxed, less observant. It’s a skill I honed during the war—the ability to see everything while appearing to notice nothing.

Inside, Shanghai Red is exactly what the exterior promised. Smoke hangs thick beneath the low ceiling, mingling with the scents of beer, sweat, and cheap perfume. Sailors and dockworkers cluster around tables and lean against the long bar, while women with hard eyes and practiced smiles circulate among them.

We make our way to the bar, where I order whiskeys for us both. The bartender, a barrel-chested man with forearms like hams, slides the drinks across without comment. Lena sips hers, her eyes scanning the room with casual efficiency.

“See anything?” I ask, voice pitched just above the noise of the crowd.

She shakes her head slightly. “Not yet. Margaret made it seem like you could get to the Crimson Clover through here, but I don’t see how.”

I let my gaze drift across the room, cataloging exits, studying faces without appearing to. Nothing stands out initially—just the usual crowd you’d expect in a place like this.

Then I notice something. A door at the far end of the bar, partially obscured by a beaded curtain. Every now and then, someone approaches it—never in groups, always alone. They speak briefly to a man stationed beside it, then slip through.

“There,” I murmur to Lena, indicating the door with a subtle nod. “That doesn’t lead to the bathroom or kitchen. People go in but they don’t come out.”

She follows my gaze, understanding immediately. “Good eye. Shall we?”

We finish our drinks and make our way casually toward the door, Lena’s hand resting lightly on my arm. The man guarding it straightens as we approach—tall, broad-shouldered, with the bland, emotionless face of professional muscle.

“Evening,” I say pleasantly. “We’re looking for the clover.”

His expression doesn’t change. “Private club. Members only.”

Lena steps forward slightly, her eyes meeting his. I feel the subtle change in the air as she exerts her compulsion. “We were invited,” she says, her voice taking on that honeyed quality that seems to bypass conscious thought. “By Katya Ivanov.”

The guard’s face remains impassive for a moment, then his eyes glaze slightly. “Of course. Go right in.”

He steps aside, holding the beaded curtain for us. Beyond it, a narrow staircase descends into darkness, lit only by small red lights along the wall.

“Stay alert,” Lena whispers as we start down the stairs. “Something feels off.”

“You don’t say.”

There’s a tension in the air, a heaviness that presses against my senses. The scent of blood reaches me—faint but unmistakable, mixed with perfume and some other chemical odor I can’t identify.

At the bottom of the stairs is another door, this one solid and imposing. No guard here—just a small panel with a crimson clover embossed on it. Lena pushes it, and the door swings open silently.

The Crimson Clover is nothing like the rough sailors’ bar above. It’s a study in decadence—velvet drapes, crystal chandeliers, plush seating arranged for intimacy rather than convenience. The lighting is dim, most illumination coming from candles placed strategically throughout the space. A small stage hosts a jazz trio playing something slow and sensual, though few seem to be listening.

The clientele is equally upscale—men in expensive suits, women in evening gowns that cost more than most people make in a month. But there’s something strange about them all, a stillness that feels unnatural, a predatory awareness that normal humans don’t possess.

“Vampires,” Lena breathes, confirming my suspicion.

Not just vampires. As my eyes adjust to the dim light, I notice humans scattered throughout—but not as patrons. They sit or stand beside vampires, expressions vacant, eyes unfocused. Some bear visible marks on their necks or wrists, fresh or partially healed.

“Jesus,” I mutter, taking in the scene. “It’s a feeding ground.”

Lena’s hand tightens on my arm. “Worse than that. Look.”

She indicates a section at the back of the club, partially concealed behind ornate screens. I can just make out what appears to be a row of small alcoves, each containing a human—chained, docile, with IV lines running into their arms.

“They’re drugging them,” Lena says, horror evident in her voice despite her composed expression. “Keeping them sedated, available whenever a vampire wants to feed.”

My stomach turns. “Is this…normal?”

“No,” she says firmly. “Most of us feed consensually or from blood stores, or, uh, more private methods. But this,” she gestures subtly at the room, “this is perversion. Treating humans like livestock. It’s…violating.”

And now we know what Lena and I were drugged with at the mansion, how Short, Winters, and French all had drugs in their system.

A waitress approaches—human, from her scent, though her eyes have the same vacant look as the others. “May I seat you?” she asks, voice flat and mechanical.

“Yes, thank you,” I reply smoothly, falling into my role. “Somewhere with a view of the room, if possible.”

She leads us to a small table with a good vantage point of both the main floor and the feeding alcoves. Perfect for our reconnaissance.

“Would you care for refreshment?” she asks. “We have a selection of wines, spirits, or… alternatives .” The emphasis makes its meaning clear.

“Just red wine for now,” Lena says, compelling subtly. “And some privacy.”

The waitress nods and withdraws. Once she’s gone, Lena leans close and whispers to me.

“This must be how they select their victims,” she says. “The ritual murders. They bring them here first, evaluate them, perhaps test their blood. I don’t recall Betty ever going anywhere like this, but it was hard to know with her.”

“From what it sounds, the Ivanovs had their claws in Short for a long time. They probably had no need to bring her here. The others though…”

Before she can respond, a familiar voice cuts through the ambient noise of the club.

“Well, what a delightful surprise.”

We look up to see a stunning blonde approaching our table, her platinum hair styled in perfect waves. It takes me a moment to recognize her without the glamour—the blonde Ivanov from the night Lena and I were drugged and manipulated.

“Katya,” Lena says.

“You remember me!” Katya seems genuinely pleased. “Most don’t. Compulsion can lead to clouded minds. You must be special.” Her gaze shifts to me, eyes narrowing slightly. “In fact, I know you are. Both of you.”

She slides into the third chair at our table without invitation, her movements liquid and graceful. Up close, without the glamour that had concealed her true nature at the mansion, her vampire features are more evident—the unnatural stillness, the predatory focus, the faint luminescence of her skin.

“We didn’t properly introduce ourselves last time,” she says to me, smile revealing the edge of fangs. “I’m Katya Ivanov. And you’ve already met my sister Tatiana.” She gestures toward the bar, where the brunette from the mansion stands watching us, raising her glass in mocking salute.

“Charming family,” I say dryly. “Do you often drug and manipulate your guests?”

Katya laughs, the sound like crystal shattering. “Only the interesting ones.” She turns her attention to Lena. “And you, my dear, are very interesting, on top of being very, very pretty.”

She reaches out, taking Lena’s hand before either of us can react. Lena tries to pull her hand away, but Katya holds fast. “Let go,” Lena says, voice tight.

Instead, Katya leans forward, capturing Lena’s lips in a kiss that’s both violent and invasive. I start to intervene, but Lena handles it herself, breaking free with enough force to send Katya’s chair skidding back several inches.

“Don’t touch me,” Lena hisses, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

Katya only smiles, running her tongue across her own lips. “Funny, you loved it before,” she says. Her eyes glitter with malevolent joy. “Luckily I don’t take rejection to heart.”

My hand moves toward my holstered gun, but I freeze at the sensation of cool metal pressing against my ribs. Tatiana has materialized beside our table, a blue dagger in her hand, positioned perfectly to slip between my ribs and into my heart.

“I wouldn’t,” she murmurs, her breath cold against my ear. “This death is so very painful for our kind. For anyone, really.”

Movement at the club’s entrance draws my attention—Konstantin entering, flanked by two shorter vampires. His face shows no surprise at seeing us, only grim satisfaction.

“I told you they’d come,” he says to Katya. “So predictable, these two.”

I practically snarl at him. “This about Marco?” I say to Konstantin. “Or this about Elizabeth Short?” I eye the girls.

“Neither,” Katya says.

“Then what the fuck do you want from us?” I demand, keeping my voice low despite the anger surging through me.

“From you?” Katya shrugs elegantly. “Nothing at the moment. But you see, Victor Callahan, you’ve been looking for us. You’ve been looking for Elizabeth’s killer. And Evelyn Winters’. And Jeanne French’s. And so, here we are.”

I’m not surprised to hear the truth, but I am disturbed by how easily she says it, flashing white fangs at me in a proud smile. She murdered those girls and she doesn’t even care.

“I should arrest you,” I growl at her. “You’ll get the gas chamber.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re a PI, Callahan. You don’t have the jurisdiction. You have no power at all, actually. Doesn’t that bother you?”

“Why’d you do it?” Lena asks her, the anger visible in her trembling voice. “Why kill her? What did Betty ever do to you?”

“Betty was a lovely girl,” Katya says. “Kind. Generous. Maybe if we had given her a choice, she would have volunteered. But alas, she was a sacrifice we had to make.”

“Sacrifice to what?” I ask.

“To a better world,” Tatiana says. “Surely you can appreciate that.”

“Nothing wrong with the world we got,” I tell her.

Katya lets out a caustic laugh. “Oh, Callahan. We know you better than that. We know you think this world is rotten, just like we do. I mean, just look at this city, this shining example of all that’s gone wrong. The war stripped away illusions. Everyone’s chasing something—money, fame, oblivion—anything to fill the emptiness the war left behind. The humans won the peace but lost their innocence in return. And so, Daddy found a way to make it all better.” She smiles at Lena. “With your help.”

“Me?” Lena asks, her composure remarkable despite the danger. And it is dangerous. Konstantin, Katya, and Tatiana surround us, their ability to compel ready to leap into action at a moment’s notice, making the two of us do anything. Then there’re the others in the club, the vampires who watch us with the interest. I wouldn’t be surprised if many of them were at the pool party, ready to do the Ivanov’s bidding. Would Lena and I win in a fight against all of this?

But just as I’m calculating our odds, a disturbance ripples through the club. Heads turn toward the entrance, conversations falter, music dies mid-note.

Four figures stand in the doorway, silhouetted against the light from the stairwell. Abe, Ezra, Adonis, and Valtu, each emanating the unmistakable power of the most notorious vampires around.

“The cavalry has arrived,” Lena murmurs, relief evident in her voice.

Katya’s expression sours. “Valtu and Van Helsing,” she spits. “Always interfering where you’re not wanted.”

“On the contrary,” Abe replies, his voice carrying clearly across the now-silent club. “I think we’re exactly where we need to be.”

The tension in the room shifts tangibly, the air itself seeming to thicken with potential violence. Vampires throughout the club rise from their seats, some moving toward the newcomers, others backing away from the impending conflict.

Tatiana’s dagger presses harder against my ribs. “This changes nothing,” she whispers. “You’re still coming with us.”

I meet Lena’s eyes across the table, a silent communication passing between us. Whatever happens next, we face it together.

The two vampire factions stare each other down across the length of the club, centuries of enmity condensed into this moment of confrontation. The humans, drugged and oblivious, continue to sit passively, unaware of the war about to erupt around them.

Valtu takes a single step forward, and the tension snaps like a bowstring.