Page 100 of Nocturne

“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.”

25

LENA

The 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?”

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