Page 4 of Nocturne

3

LENA

I didn’t sleep much last night, not that I’m surprised. It’s been four days since I learned Betty had been murdered and she’s been on my mind ever since. In every spare moment I’m going over her diary, trying to learn as much as possible, while trying to keep a semblance of my normal life.

I stretch languidly and rise from bed, padding barefoot to the kitchen. The wood floor is cool beneath my feet, a sensation I register without being truly bothered by it. Temperature affects me differently now—I feel it, but it doesn’t trouble me the way it once did, before the change.

I open the refrigerator, surveying the contents with a critical eye. Most of the contents are for show, in case Marco snoops around, though I do like to eat my fair share of cottage cheese. It doesn’t do much to sustain me, but I like the taste of it with canned pineapple and it will do in a pinch. We all have our quirks.

I take out ham, cheese, lettuce, and a jar of mustard. Anne will be hungry tonight. She always is, though she’d never admit it.

As I slice bread from the loaf I keep solely for her, I think about how many small deceptions fill my days. The food I eat but mostly don’t enjoy. The warmth I feign when someone touches my cool skin. The careful way I moderate my strength, never letting on that I could lift a car if needed.

The way I hide my true, monstrous self.

The sandwich comes together quickly and I wrap it carefully in wax paper, then decide to prepare two more to go with it. This way she still gets to eat after she feeds her kids. A small kindness in a world that hasn’t shown Anne much kindness based on the color of her skin.

I set them aside and make coffee. The rich aroma fills my apartment, another small pleasure I still enjoy, even if food no longer satisfies the way it once did. I pour a cup and carry it to the table, then go to my bedroom and pull her diary out from under the floorboards.

I sit back down with my coffee and flip past the sections I’ve already memorized, the entries about her courier jobs for Cohen, her growing fear of the Europeans. Instead, I turn to the earlier pages, to when we first met.

Nov. 3, 1945 – That terrible audition at Paramount. Thought I’d cry right there in front of Mr. Weinberg. But that redhead was worse haha! Lena something. We got coffee after and laughed until my sides hurt. She just started signing at Slapsy Maxies on Wednesday nights, offered to put in a word for me. Said the pay is good but the company’s questionable. Mob types. Seems to know her way around, though. Wonder what her story is.

I smile, remembering that day. Betty in a black dress that didn’t quite fit, me in a borrowed wool suit, both of us striking out spectacularly. We’d bonded over our mutual failure—indeed it was that audition that made me realize I’d never cut it as an actress—and from that sprung a friendship I now treasure more than ever.

Damn it.

Why didn’t I ever tell her that? Tell her how much she meant to me?

Now it’s too late.

Nov. 15, 1945 – Saw Lena’s show tonight. My god, that voice! Like honey over gravel. Makes you want to spill all your secrets. The men watching her seemed hypnotized. Don’t blame them, I was too! There’s something about her that’s magnetic. But also distant, like she’s not fully present. Introduced me to her boyfriend, Marco. Don’t like him. The way he looks at her, like she’s a possession, like he doesn’t respect her at all. She deserves better.

I grimace at the mention of Marco. Betty had seen through him immediately.

Feb. 2, 1946 – Dinner with Lena before her show at The Emerald Room. She barely touched her food, which wouldn’t be odd if she’s watching her figure, but I never see her eat, now that I think about it. Not once. And we’ve been to dinner plenty of times (she’s always paying, bless her!). Also, every time I ask about her past, she gets kind of cagey. There’s something not quite right there. Something she’s hiding. But then, everyone in this town is hiding something, aren’t they?

My fingers still on the page. Betty had noticed more than I’d given her credit for. Had she suspected what I was? Surely not—humans don’t typically jump to “vampire” as an explanation for odd behaviors. Still, it makes me uneasy.

I flip ahead.

Oct. 20, 1946 – Lena helped me move into the boardinghouse. She carried my trunk up three flights of stairs like it was nothing! When I commented, she said she used to help her father with farm work. Maybe that explains her strength. Still, there’s something in her eyes sometimes. Like she’s seen things no one should see. Much older than her years. Sometimes I think there’s something almost magical about her. Mystical, even.

A chill runs through me. Betty had been observant—dangerously so. But she’d never confronted me, never questioned me directly. Just noted her observations with the careful attention to detail that made her a good writer.

And now a dead one.

I turn a few more pages, finding an entry that catches my eye:

Nov. 12, 1946 – Met Lena for drinks at The Lavender Room on Figueroa. The bartender, Vivian, kept making eyes at her all night. Can’t blame her. When I teased L about it, she just smiled that mysterious smile of hers. Said she “appreciates beauty in all its forms.” Another thing we have in common.

The Lavender Room. I’d forgotten about that place. A discreet establishment catering to women who prefer the company of other women. Betty had been fascinated by it, though more as an observer than a participant. I’d taken her there a few times when she wanted something different.

And now, seeing the address scrawled in the margin of her diary later on, I wonder if she’d continued going there without me. I knew the bartender well enough that I could at least ask. I don’t think the cops would know about this side of Betty at any rate. Might be worth checking out.

The telephone’s shrill ring startles me from my thoughts. I cross the room to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Where the hell have you been?” Marco’s voice, sharp with irritation.

“I called three times last night. You disconnect your phone or something?”

“I was home,” I say carefully. “I must have been sleeping.”

Truthfully, I pulled out the cord and read Betty’s diary, uninterrupted.

“Since when do you sleep so heavy?” He doesn’t wait for my answer. “I need you at the club early tonight. Mickey’s bringing some business associates, wants you to do a private set.”

Business associates. A code phrase that could mean anything from legitimate investors to rival gangsters. I’ve learned not to ask questions.

“What time?”

“Seven. Wear the black dress with the gloves. The red one scares people.” He pauses. “And be on your best behavior. These are important people.”

“I’m always on my best behavior, Marco.”

“Sure you are, Red.” His tone softens marginally. “Listen, about Elizabeth…”

“I don’t want to talk about Betty,” I say sharply.

“Neither do I. But the cops might come around again. If they do?—”

“I know what to say.” I’ve had this conversation with him before, about other incidents at the club. Keep it simple. See nothing, hear nothing, know nothing.

“Good girl.” He hangs up without saying goodbye, as usual.

I replace the receiver, my jaw tight with restrained anger. Marco treats me like a child, or worse, a pet. I sometimes wonder why I tolerate it, but the answers are simple: he’s good in bed and it’s a convenience. The Emerald Room gives me access to the job I want, the cover I require, and connections that keep me safe, on the surface level, at least. Marco is just the unpleasant price I pay.

We all have to pay something in this town.

Rain falls in a fine mist as I leave The Emerald Room later that night, the kind that doesn’t soak you immediately but eventually seeps through to your skin. The neon signs of the strip blur into watercolor smears, reflected in puddles on the sidewalk.

I’d performed my set as required, smiled at Mickey’s “business associates” who turned out to be some city councilmen on the take, and made my excuses to Marco. A headache, I’d claimed. He’d been displeased but distracted by the evening’s business to let me go without a fuss.

Now I hail a taxi and give the driver an address three blocks from The Lavender Room. I need to be discreet. If I’m seen there, Marco will hear that I’m in a “lezzie” bar and I’m sure I’ll get two black eyes in return.

The taxi drops me off, and I walk the remaining distance, my heels clicking on the wet pavement, darkness settling around me like a comfortable cloak. The Lavender Room is housed in a nondescript building with no exterior signage, just a purple door and a small window with the curtains drawn at the back of the building. If you didn’t know it was there, you’d walk right past it.

I knock three times, pause, then twice more. A small peephole slides open, eyes narrowed in suspicion. Then recognition.

“Miss Reid,” a voice says. “Been a while.”

The door opens, revealing a broad-shouldered, six-foot woman in men’s trousers and a crisp white shirt. Lois de Fee, the infamous bouncer who works a lot of bars in the city, mainly as a novelty. She gives me a respectful nod as I enter.

“What brings you back to our humble establishment?” she asks, closing the door behind me.

“Just looking for a quiet drink.”

She raises an eyebrow but asks no further questions. That’s the beauty of places like this—everyone respects the need for discretion.

Inside, The Lavender Room lives up to its name. Purple velvet curtains line the walls, soft jazz plays from a gramophone in the corner, and a handful of women sit at small tables, conversations hushed, cigarette smoke hanging in a haze near the ceiling. The lighting is low, faces half-hidden in shadow.

I make my way to the bar, where a slender woman with short-cropped dark hair mixes drinks with practiced efficiency. She looks up as I approach, her hands stilling momentarily.

“Well, well,” she says, a slow smile spreading across her face. “Lena Reid. Thought you’d found fancier watering holes.”

“Hello, Vivian,” I say, sliding onto a barstool. “No place fancier than this.”

She snorts, but I can see she’s pleased. “What’ll it be?”

“Aviation, please.”

She prepares my drink, her movements fluid and graceful. I’d forgotten how attractive Vivian is, with her sharp cheekbones and knowing eyes and her take charge energy. In another life, perhaps…

“Haven’t seen you in months,” she says, placing the drink before me. “Maybe a year. Not since you started running with that mob fellow. You finally leave him?”

“Marco isn’t why I’m here tonight,” I say, licking my finger and patting it along the sugared rim of the glass.

“No?” She leans across the bar, close enough that I can smell her perfume. “What is, then?”

I place my finger in my mouth, sucking on the sugar. “Betty Short. She came here with me once or twice.”

Vivian’s expression shutters immediately. “Don’t remember any Betty.”

“Dark hair? Pale skin? Always wore black?” I press. “Elizabeth Short. She was found murdered four days ago.”

“The Black Dahlia,” Vivian says quietly. “That was her? Jesus.”

I nod, watching her reaction carefully. “You remember. So why’d you lie?”

“I serve drinks to a lot of people.”

“But you remember her. She came here without me, didn’t she?”

Vivian busies herself wiping down the bar. “Look, I don’t want any trouble. We get enough of that as it is.”

I reach across the bar, my fingers wrapping around her wrist. The contact is deliberate, skin against skin, as I let a thread of compulsion seep into my voice.

“Tell me about Betty, Vivian. When was she last here?”

Her eyes glaze slightly, her resistance melting under my influence. “A couple weeks ago. She was meeting someone. Like she always did.”

Always did? “Who?”

“Tall, black hair. Elegant. Way too classy for this joint, if you ask me.”

My pulse quickens. Could that be one of the Europeans Betty wrote about? The brunette with diamonds? “Did you catch her name?”

“No. They always sat in the back booth. The brunette would order a single drink, never touched it. Just talked with Betty for hours.”

“What did they talk about? Did the brunette have an accent?”

Vivian shakes her head, fighting my compulsion slightly. “Couldn’t hear. But Betty seemed…nervous, the last time. They argued. The brunette grabbed her wrist—hard enough to leave marks. I was about to intervene when Betty pulled away and left.”

“When was this?”

“A week ago? Maybe more. Right before…” She trails off, blinking as my compulsion begins to fade.

I release her wrist, letting my hand linger in a caress that appears casual but reinforces the suggestion that this conversation wasn’t unusual.

“Thanks for the drink, Viv,” I say, placing money on the bar and tipping extra. “For old times’ sake.”

She nods, still slightly dazed. “Stay safe, Lena.”

I leave The Lavender Room with new questions crowding my mind. If Betty had been into women, I wouldn’t have been surprised. I can pick up on those things. But she never once mentioned the brunette to me, and as far as I know, hadn’t written it in her diary, other than a reference to one of the Europeans.

The rain has intensified, falling in earnest now. I pull my coat tighter and begin walking, scanning the street for a taxi. At this hour, in this neighborhood, they’re scarce.

I’ve gone two blocks when I feel it—that prickle on the back of my neck that signals I’m being watched. I keep walking, maintaining my pace, but my senses sharpen. Footsteps behind me, matching my rhythm. Someone keeping pace, staying just far enough back to remain in shadow.

I turn a corner onto a street lined with closed storefronts, their windows dark and empty. The footsteps continue, neither accelerating nor falling behind.

Deliberate.

Stalking.

Without turning my head, I slip my hand into my purse, fingers closing around the handle of my silver knife. My vampire strength gives me an advantage over most humans, but I’ve learned never to be overconfident, especially not in public.

Especially not with Betty’s killer still walking free. Even I don’t think I’d survive with my body cut in half.

The next intersection is better lit, with a late-night diner on the corner. If I can reach it, blend in with the other patrons…

The footsteps quicken suddenly. I resist the urge to run—predators chase what flees, I should know—and instead maintain my steady pace, though every nerve ending screams at me to run as fast as I can.

A sound behind me, shoes splashing through a puddle.

Closer now.

Much closer.

I spin around, knife half-drawn from my purse, prepared to confront my stalker.

The street is empty.

Rain falls in sheets, obscuring visibility beyond a few yards, but there’s no one there. No figure in the shadows, no sound of retreating footsteps. Just the patter of raindrops and the distant wail of a police siren.

For a moment, I wonder if my nerves are getting the better of me. If grief for Betty has me jumping at shadows.

Then I see it—a cigarette butt on the sidewalk, still smoking, the ember dying in the rain. Whoever was following me was here seconds ago, close enough to touch. And now they’ve vanished, as if they were never there at all.

I continue toward the diner, faster now, no longer caring if I appear frightened. Because I am. Not just for my own safety—though it might take more than a stalker to kill a vampire—but because of what this means.

Someone is watching me.

Following me.

The same someone who killed Betty?

Or someone else entirely?

As I reach the diner’s brightly lit entrance, I glance back one last time. For an instant—so brief I might have imagined it—I think I see a figure standing in the shadows across the street. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Watching.

Then a passing car’s headlights sweep the spot, and there’s nothing there.

Just rain, and darkness, and the growing certainty that I’m being hunted.