Page 34 of Nocturne

33

CALLAHAN

I ’m dreaming. In a dark room, surrounded by people wearing red robes and ugly masks. In the middle of the room is a fire, Dmitri standing in the middle of it, engulfed by the flames. He’s calling me from within, I can feel the pull in my marrow. It’s like he’s still in control, still able to access me even through death.

I’m afraid I’m succumbing, afraid that as he whispers terrible things through the fire—that I’m a monster, a killer, a remorseless thug—that I’ll start to believe it. That I’ll become it, more than I already am.

He’s got a stranglehold on me, one that I fear I’ll never be free of.

Then I feel warmth spread though me. Hot wind that envelopes like a hug. The fire dances and Dmitri screams, pulled down, down, until he’s gone.

The flames abruptly stop and Lena emerges in their place, naked and beautiful with her hair flowing around her like a cape.

“You’re home,” she says to me, holding out her hand.

I wake up gasping for breath.

“Another dream again?”

I look down beside me on the bed to see Lena sleeping on her stomach, her mouth moving against the pillow, eyes closed.

God, she’s so fucking beautiful. In the darkness of the room, in these quiet hours in the middle of the night, she feels like sunshine, the only kind I can bear. The kind that gives life.

“Another dream,” I manage to say, licking my lips.

“Did it at least end happier this time?” she murmurs, stirring slightly, her hair falling off her smooth shoulder.

“It did.”

You’re my home, too , I think.

“But I still need some reassurance,” I tell her, my cock stirring, my voice coming out rough.

“Need me to remind you that we have our happy ending?” She stretches out, pushing her ass into the air. Her body is a perfect invitation.

“Need you to remind me how good you are,” I say, and roll on top of her. My skin’s already hot; the dream still has its claws in me. But her body’s hotter, and it’s mine now. Now and forever.

She lets out a soft noise—a half-gasp, half-laugh—as I pin her against the sheets.

“I love how wet you always are for me.” My fingers find her and she moans, spreading wider. It’s true: she’s soaking, dripping onto my hand as I slide two fingers inside. “Tight little pussy,” I tell her, thrusting them in deep. “Sweet little kitten.”

She turns her face toward me, pressing her cheek into the pillow, murmuring something I can’t quite make out until it gets louder: “I want your cock.”

I’m happy to oblige.

I pull her hips up until she’s kneeling and press against her from behind. Her mouth forms a perfect O as I push inside. Slow at first—shallow strokes that make us both crazy—but then she bucks back against me and the animal takes over.

“Fuck,” I growl as we move together, holding nothing back now, feeling the push and pull of us. “Goddamn, you feel so good.”

“You’re so deep,” she gasps.

“Deeper,” I promise, slamming harder, our bodies meeting with wet sounds that drive us both insane.

She cries out louder, biting down on the pillow to keep from waking the world with how close she already is.

I reach around and rub her clit while I pound into her from behind. She starts shaking almost immediately, like I knew she would.

“That’s it,” I tell her when she breaks apart around my cock, quivering as she comes. “I want everyone to hear that this pussy is mine. No one else’s but mine.”

She whimpers that it is—it always will be—and then grabs the sheets as another wave hits.

The sight of her trembling beneath me is enough to shove me over the edge too. My whole body tenses and I spill inside her with a low groan, holding myself there until we’re both spent. Until our breathing slows down again.

And still we stay tangled together—my chest pressed against her back—even after we’ve stopped moving.

Lena sighs softly into the dark room as we collapse sideways onto each other.

“Are you assured now?” she asks breathlessly after a long silence.

“Mmmm.” I kiss the side of her neck. “Absolutely.”

We lay there for a while without speaking, listening to each other breathe and feeling our heartbeats settle back to normal again.

Eventually Lena lets out a sleepy laugh. “Are we ever going to have sex where you don’t tell me I’m yours?”

“Just making sure you know it.”

“Trust me.” She shifts so that we’re face-to-face now instead of spooning; there’s mischief in those dark eyes even though they’re heavy-lidded with exhaustion again already from what we just did together.

And what we’ll soon do again.

I watch as Lena moves around the kitchen with practiced ease, having made herself at home in the weeks since our confrontation with the Ivanovs. The wounds that had marked her body have healed completely, leaving no physical trace of Dmitri’s torture, though I sometimes catch shadows in her eyes when she thinks I’m not looking.

My own scars are invisible too—the psychological weight of learning my true heritage, of killing so many, of accepting the vampire nature that now flows in harmony with my human side.

It’s peace, of a sort I’ve never known before.

“Coffee?” Lena asks, holding up the percolator. The domesticity of the moment catches me unawares, warming something deep in my chest.

“Please,” I reply, watching as she pours the dark liquid into a mug, adding just the right amount of sugar. She knows how I take it now, just as I know she prefers her blood mixed with red wine in the evenings, and straight from the vein—mine, specifically—when we’re alone.

She slides the cup across the marble countertop, then returns to the real estate section of the Los Angeles Times spread before her. “What about this one? A three bedroom in Silver Lake, view of the reservoir.”

I lean over her shoulder, scanning the listing. The house looks promising—secluded enough for privacy but not so remote as to draw attention. “Could work,” I agree, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. “Seems a bit large for just the two of us, though.”

She glances up, dark eyes glimmering. “Planning ahead. We’ll need space for your office, my music room. Maybe more, eventually.”

The implication hangs in the air between us—a future together, stretching beyond this temporary sanctuary at Abe’s colony. I find myself smiling, the expression still feeling somewhat foreign on my face after years of careful restraint.

“Silver Lake it is, then,” I concede, claiming the stool beside her. “When do you want to see it?”

“I’ll call the agent this afternoon,” she says, circling the listing with a red pencil. “Assuming we’re still free?”

I nod, sipping my coffee. The PI business has been slow since I returned from the “dead”—my official story being that I’d been injured during a case and needed time to recuperate. Coleman had accepted the explanation with skeptical grace, more concerned with the continued investigation into Marco’s disappearance than my extended absence. I think he knows it’s a dead-end.

“Any word from Adonis and Valtu?” I ask, changing the subject.

Lena shakes her head, a smile playing at her lips. “Not since that postcard from Santorini. Abe thinks Valtu is showing Adonis all his old haunts, introducing him to European vampire society.”

“Hard to imagine those two on vacation,” I muse, thinking of Valtu’s intensity and Adonis’s stoic silence.

“Everyone needs a change of scenery sometimes,” Lena says, her hand finding mine on the countertop. “Even really old vampires.”

“And Ezra? Still in San Francisco?”

“According to his last call, yes. Reconnecting with old friends in the colony there.” She turns a page in the newspaper. “Abe says he might stay through the summer.”

The quiet rhythm of this new life still amazes me—the casual discussions of vampire friends traveling across continents, the easy acceptance of my place in this hidden world. Three months ago, I was a PI investigating the gruesome murder of Elizabeth Short. Now I’m shopping for real estate with a vampire lover, discussing the vacation plans of immortal beings as if commenting on the weather.

“What’s so funny?” Lena asks, noticing my expression.

“Just thinking about how quickly life changes,” I admit. “How normal this all feels now.”

She smiles, leaning over to press a kiss to my cheek. “Normal is what we make it. Speaking of, how are your parents? You were still talking to your father last night when I fell asleep.”

Ever since I learned about my true heritage, I’ve had a need to reach out to my parents. They still live alone in Chicago, though it seems they might need some extra care soon. I don’t want to put them in a retirement home, so I’m hoping to get them a nurse. At the very least, I plan to see them sometime this year. Dmitri has made me appreciate my parents more than ever before, and I should have stayed in touch with them more often than I have.

“They’re good. My mom found a new recipe and my dad will depressed until baseball begins.”

Just then Abe enters the kitchen, dressed in his usual immaculate fashion despite the early hour. “Good morning, lovebirds,” he greets, heading straight for the coffee. “House hunting again, I see.”

“You trying to get rid of us, Doc?” I ask, only half-joking.

He waves a dismissive hand. “My home is your home for as long as you need it. But I know how young couples value their privacy.” The twinkle in his eye suggests he’s heard more than enough of our nocturnal activities over the past weeks.

“Any news on Cohen?” Lena asks, mercifully changing the subject.

Abe’s expression grows more serious. “Nothing concrete. He’s keeping a low profile since the warehouse fire made the papers. Naturally it belonged to him. The official story about a gang dispute seems to have satisfied the authorities, but Mickey’s not taking chances.”

“Is he still looking for us?” I ask.

“For you two specifically? I doubt it.” Abe pours himself coffee, leaning against the counter. “He knows Marco isn’t coming back. But my sources say he’s afraid, though he’d never admit it. Too many of his men have disappeared. Too many questions without answers.”

“Good,” Lena says with quiet intensity. “Let him be afraid.”

I squeeze her hand, understanding the sentiment. Cohen had been complicit in the Ivanovs’ plans, whether he fully understood them or not. His organization had provided cover for their activities, facilitated their rituals, helped procure their victims. Elizabeth Short would likely still be alive if not for that unholy alliance.

“He’ll slip up eventually,” I say. “Men like Cohen always do.”

“And we’ll be waiting when he does,” Lena adds, her expression hardening momentarily before softening as she looks at me. “But first, we have a life to build.”

The simple declaration warms me in ways I’m still learning to accept. A life. Together. It seems impossible, yet here we are, planning for a future neither of us could have imagined months ago.

“Speaking of building,” Abe interjects, refilling his cup, “have you given any thought to your professional situation?”

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “The PI business is viable, though clients are scarce at the moment. Coleman’s kept my name out of official reports, but rumors spread in this town. Besides, according to the public, the Black Dahlia killer is still at large. I look like a bum who can’t solve anything.”

“And I’m not exactly rushing back to singing at mob clubs,” Lena adds dryly.

“Perhaps a change of direction for both of you,” Abe suggests, his tone deliberately casual. “Your combined skills could be quite valuable in certain circles.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Vampire detective agency? Solving supernatural crimes?”

Abe chuckles. “Not quite so dramatic, though not entirely off base. Our kind sometimes requires…discreet intervention in human affairs. Traces that need erasing, situations that need managing.”

“Vampire fixers,” Lena translates, a hint of amusement in her voice.

“If you like,” Abe concedes with a shrug. “It’s work that requires your investigative experience, Callahan, and Lena’s connections in the entertainment world. Plus the unique abilities you both possess.”

The proposition is intriguing. After decades of investigating human crimes, the prospect of applying those same skills to vampire concerns offers a certain poetic symmetry. And working alongside Lena rather than worrying about her safety at Cohen’s club appeals on multiple levels.

“We’ll think about it,” I tell him, exchanging a look with Lena that confirms her interest as well.

Our conversation is interrupted by a sharp knock at the front door. We all freeze, immediately alert. Abe’s colony is warded against uninvited visitors, its location known to only a handful of trusted vampires.

“Expecting company?” I ask quietly, already moving to position myself between the door and Lena.

Abe shakes his head, setting down his coffee cup. “Stay here,” he instructs, moving with preternatural grace toward the front of the house.

Lena and I ignore him, of course, following at a cautious distance. I can feel my senses sharpening, preparing for potential threat.

Abe pauses at the front door, clearly sensing who waits on the other side. His posture relaxes slightly, though wariness remains in his stance.

“Curious,” he murmurs, before pulling the door open.

Konstantin stands on the threshold, hands in the pockets of an impeccably tailored white suit and hat, his strange purple-gray eyes surveying us with calm assessment. He looks exactly as he did the day he attacked us at the warehouse—lean, dangerous, with a face I want to punch. Again.

A growl builds in my chest, vampire instincts surging to the forefront. Lena tenses beside me, her hand finding mine in silent solidarity.

“Van Helsing,” Konstantin greets with a slight nod. “Callahan. Ms. Reid. May I come in?”

“That depends entirely on your purpose here,” Abe replies coolly. “The last time we met, you were trying to kill my friends.”

Konstantin shrugs, the gesture oddly elegant. “Professional obligations. Nothing personal.” His gaze shifts to me. “You fought well, by the way. Few newborns could have matched me as you did.”

“What do you want?” I demand, cutting through the pleasantries. “How did you find this place?”

“To answer your second question first—I’ve known about Van Helsing’s colony for decades. I simply never had reason to visit until now.” His lips curve in what might be a smile on a human face. “As for what I want…I believe we may have mutual interests.”

Abe considers him for a long moment, then steps aside. “Come in. But understand that any hostile move will be your last.”

Konstantin enters with measured steps, hands remaining visible as he follows Abe to the living room. Lena and I exchange glances before trailing after them, maintaining a careful distance.

“Drink?” Abe offers, more from protocol than hospitality.

“No, thank you,” Konstantin declines, remaining standing even as Abe gestures toward the seating area. “I won’t take much of your time.”

“How considerate,” Lena says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Last time we saw you, you were working for the people who tortured me.”

Konstantin turns those uncanny eyes on her. “I worked with the Ivanovs, yes. And for Cohen. I work for myself, ultimately. Always have.”

“A mercenary,” I observe.

“A survivor,” he corrects. “Like all of us.”

Abe leans against the mantlepiece, arms crossed. “You still haven’t explained why you’re here, Konstantin.”

“A proposition.” He smooths an invisible wrinkle from his suit jacket. “With the Ivanovs gone, there’s a vacuum in Los Angeles. Cohen’s organization is vulnerable, directionless. He doesn’t realize it yet, but his position has never been more precarious.”

“And this concerns us how?” I ask, though I already suspect where this is heading.

“Mickey Cohen is a disease in this city,” Konstantin says bluntly. “His operations bring attention, violence, instability—all things our kind should avoid. Moreover, he was instrumental in the Ivanovs’ rituals, whether he fully understood their purpose or not. Elizabeth Short’s blood is on his hands as surely as it was on Dmitri’s.”

The mention of Elizabeth sends a pang through me—guilt, grief, responsibility all mingled together. “We’re aware of Cohen’s complicity,” I say tightly.

“Then you understand why he needs to be removed.” Konstantin paces a few steps, graceful as a panther. “I’ve spent years embedded in his organization. I know his operations, his weaknesses, his secrets. But I can’t move against him alone.”

Lena steps forward, arms crossed defensively. “You want us to help you take down Cohen? Why would we trust you?”

“You shouldn’t,” Konstantin replies immediately. “Trust is earned. I’m merely suggesting an alignment of interests.”

“Why now?” Abe asks, the question cutting to the heart of the matter. “The Ivanovs are gone. Your employers eliminated. You could simply disappear, start fresh elsewhere.”

Konstantin’s expression hardens slightly. “Los Angeles is my home. Has been for decades. I watched the Ivanovs corrupt it, twist it to serve their madness. Cohen is a continuation of that corruption.” He pauses, something almost human flickering across his features. “And perhaps I owe a debt for my part in their schemes.”

“Redemption?” I ask skeptically.

“Justice,” he counters. “For Elizabeth Short. For Sylvia Winters. For Jeanne French. For all the others whose names we’ll never know.”

His words strike a chord—justice. It’s what I sought when Virginia West first hired me, what I still seek despite knowing the full, terrible truth about Elizabeth’s murder. About my unwilling role in it.

“Cohen is protected,” Lena points out. “He has police, politicians, judges in his pocket.”

“Which is why conventional methods won’t work,” Konstantin agrees. “But unconventional ones?” His smile reveals the barest hint of fang. “That’s where our unique abilities come into play. He doesn’t know I’m a vampire. He doesn’t know we even exist.”

Abe pushes away from the mantelpiece, expression thoughtful. “Ezra might be interested in such a venture. Adonis and Valtu too, if they ever return from their gallivanting.”

I glance at Lena, finding her already watching me, something speculative in her gaze. Taking down Cohen would provide closure, especially for her. It would also, I realize, align perfectly with Abe’s suggestion of our new professional direction.

“We’d need details,” I say finally, neither accepting nor rejecting the proposition. “Specifics. Proof that this isn’t another trap.”

“Of course,” Konstantin agrees readily. “I have extensive documentation on Cohen’s operations. Financial records, blackmail material, evidence of judicial tampering. Enough to destroy him a dozen times over, if placed in the right hands. Next stop, Alcatraz.”

“And what do you get out of this?” Lena asks.

Konstantin considers her question with apparent seriousness. “A clean slate. A city free of Cohen’s influence. And perhaps…allies, where once I had only employers.”

The offer hangs in the air between us, unexpected yet strangely fitting. The detective in me recognizes the strategic value of what he proposes. The vampire in me senses both opportunity and danger, a challenge worthy of my newly integrated nature.

Lena steps closer to me, her shoulder brushing mine in silent communion. “We’ll need time to discuss this,” she tells Konstantin. “Privately.”

“Of course.” He withdraws a card from his jacket pocket, placing it on the coffee table. “My direct line. Available day or night.” He turns to leave, then pauses, looking back at us. “Cohen fears what happened to the Ivanovs, though he doesn’t understand it. Fears it might happen to him next. He’s right to be afraid.” His strange eyes meet mine directly. “We could make that fear a reality.”

With that, he nods to Abe and walks out, steps fading as he returns to the front door. We remain silent until we hear it close behind him, the implicit threat and promise of his visit lingering in the air.

“Well,” Abe says finally, “that was unexpected.”

Lena moves to the windows, watching as Konstantin’s sleek black car pulls away from the house. “Do you think he’s telling the truth? About wanting to take down Cohen?”

“Partially,” Abe replies thoughtfully. “With the Ivanovs gone, he needs new alliances. This is as much about securing his position as it is about justice.”

“But he’s right about Cohen,” I say, joining Lena at the window. “As long as he’s in power, he’s a threat—to the city, to us, to everyone who knows too much about what happened to Elizabeth Short. He’s all that’s wrong with this place.”

“So, we’re considering this?” Lena asks, turning to face me. There’s no judgment in her expression, just genuine inquiry. “Partnering with Konstantin? Going after Cohen?”

I reach for her hand, threading my fingers through hers. Three months ago, I might have rejected the idea outright, clinging to some abstract notion of legal justice. But I’ve changed. The world has changed. And sometimes justice requires methods beyond what human law can provide.

“I think,” I say carefully, “that if anyone deserves to face consequences for their part in the fall of Los Angeles, it’s Cohen.” I pause, considering my next words. “And I think we’re uniquely qualified to ensure those consequences find him.”

A slow smile spreads across Lena’s face—not her stage smile, practiced and perfect, but something wilder, more primal. The smile of a predator scenting prey. “Vampire justice,” she says, the words both question and statement.

“Something like that,” I agree, feeling an answering smile form on my own lips.

Abe watches us with pride in his bright eyes. “I’ll contact Ezra in San Francisco. Send word to Adonis and Valtu in Greece. If we’re doing this, we do it properly. Together.”

The future stretches before us, uncertain but full of possibility. A new home in Silver Lake. A new purpose in vampire society. A new target in Mickey Cohen. And through it all, the unshakable certainty that whatever comes next, we’ll face it as we’ve faced everything since that first night at The Emerald Room.

As one.