Page 111 of Nocturne

I grimace, my stomach growing queasy.

“Something wrong?”

I shake my head. I’m not going to get into the fact that his sister did some questionable acts with Callahan, right in front of me. Thank god she’s dead.

And thank god he isn’t one of them. His blood doesn’t define him, any more than my AB negative status defines me.

“We need to find him,” I say, turning back to face the others with new conviction. “Before Dmitri can convince him thatblood is destiny. Before he makes Callahan into something he isn’t.”

“We will,” Abe promises. “But not tonight. We need to plan. The Ivanovs will be expecting an immediate rescue attempt. And first we have to find them.”

Logic tells me he’s right, but every instinct screams to go now, to try and find Callahan before it’s too late. I think of him alone with Dmitri, learning the truth of his parentage, being offered power beyond imagining. Would he resist? Would the man I love withstand that temptation?

I have to believe he would. Have to believe that the connection between us is stronger than blood ties he never knew existed.

“First light,” I say, making it clear this isn’t a request. “We start searching at first light. We do as Callahan would and turn over every stone, follow every lead, and we don’t give up until we find out where the Ivanovs have taken him. I won’t leave him with them a moment longer than necessary.”

Abe studies me for a long moment, then nods. “First light,” he agrees. “But until then, you rest. You heal. You prepare. We all do.”

The others filter out of the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts. Through the side windows, I can see the lights of Los Angeles spread out below like a carpet of stars brought down to earth, the curve of Palos Verdes and San Pedro right behind it. Somewhere out there, Callahan is facing the darkest truth of his existence.

I press my hand against the cool glass, a silent promise carried on the night air.

Hold on, Victor. I’m coming for you. No matter what.

28

CALLAHAN

Idrift back to consciousness slowly, moving through layers of darkness like swimming up from the bottom of a deep lake. With each passing moment, sensation returns—first the dull throb of pain at the base of my skull, then the cold bite of metal against my wrists and ankles, then the flickering orange glow against my closed eyelids.

My head pounds with a ferocious intensity that makes coherent thought difficult. Fragments of memory come in disjointed flashes—the Crimson Clover, vampires feeding on drugged humans, Valtu tearing out Tatiana’s heart, the chaos of battle, Lena’s voice calling my name.

A blue glowing blade.

Then nothing.

I force my eyes open, blinking against the stabbing pain that accompanies the effort. The room swims into focus gradually—stone walls, high ceiling, no windows. Candles burn in wrought iron holders spaced around the perimeter, casting long shadows that seem to writhe with a life of their own.

I’m secured to what appears to be a medical gurney, thick metal restraints binding my wrists and ankles. The bonds areheavier than standard hospital equipment—designed, I suspect, to hold someone with vampire strength.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” a voice says from somewhere beyond my limited field of vision. “And to think some call us the undead.”

The speaker steps into view, and recognition slams into me. The man from the morgue—the one I’d seen briefly standing in the corner when I was staring at Elizabeth Short’s mutilated body. Tall, distinguished bearing, with black hair and silver at his temples that only enhances the aristocratic planes of his face. He can’t be older than me and yet he has the air of someone who has been around a very long time. I hadn’t seen him clearly then, had thought him just another official.

Now I know better.

“Dmitri Ivanov,” I say, my voice a dry rasp.

He inclines his head slightly, acknowledging the identification. “And you are Victor Callahan. Private investigator. Former boxer. Former soldier.” His mouth curves in what might be a smile on a human face, but on his, it’s merely a predatory baring of teeth. “Former human.”

I test the restraints subtly, assessing their strength without betraying my intent. They don’t budge.

“Don’t bother,” Dmitri says, watching my efforts with mild amusement. “Those shackles are designed to hold creatures far older and stronger than you.” He moves to stand at the foot of the gurney, studying me with unsettling intensity. “Though I must say, your strength has developed impressively for one so newly transitioned.”

“What do you want from me?” I demand, forcing authority into my voice despite my vulnerable position.

“What do I want?” Dmitri echoes, seeming genuinely puzzled by the question. “I want what any father wants. To know his son.”

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