Page 113 of Nocturne

“I won’t help you find her,” I say, certainty hardening my voice. “I don’t give a fuck what you do to me.”

Dmitri sighs, as if disappointed by my predictable response. “You misunderstand, Victor. I don’t need your conscious cooperation. I only need to determine what triggers your transformation.”

Fear coils in my stomach—not for myself, but for what I might become, what I might do if the other side of me takes control. “What are you talking about?”

“Your vampire self,” Dmitri explains, as if to a child. “The part of you that emerges during your blackouts. It’s quite fascinating—when your vampire nature takes over, it’s as if you become a different person entirely. One who recognizes me as father. One who obeys me without question.”

A cold weight settles in my chest. “You’re lying.”

“Am I?” Dmitri gestures to a cloth-covered table I hadn’t noticed before, positioned against the far wall. “Perhaps a demonstration will be more convincing.”

He crosses to the table and removes the cloth, revealing an array of items laid out with surgical precision. He selects one—a woman’s scarf, emerald-green silk—and returns to the gurney.

“Do you recognize this?” he asks, dangling the scarf before my eyes.

I do. It’s Lena’s, the one she wore the morning we had coffee at Musso & Frank. The sight of it sends a jolt of panic through me. “Where did you get that?”

“From her apartment, of course. Along with a few other personal items.” Dmitri’s smile is coldly clinical. “I’m testing a theory. You see, I think when vampires first transform, it’s not just the birthday that causes it, but there’s a specific trigger that brings forth their true nature. For some, it’s pain."

He produces a blue dagger from his sleeve, letting it catch the candlelight. “For others, it’s blood.” The dagger disappears back into his sleeve. “But I suspect, in your case, it might be more…emotional. And if it’s emotional, well, perhaps we can manipulate it.”

He drapes the scarf across my face, the silk cool against my skin. Lena’s scent fills my nostrils—heady night jasmine. I close my eyes, struggling to maintain control as memories flood my mind—Lena singing at The Emerald Room, Lena’s lips against mine, Lena’s blood on my tongue. My cock throbs in response.

“Interesting reaction,” Dmitri observes dryly, watching me closely. “But not quite what I’m looking for. The last thing we need right now is bloodlust.”

He removes the scarf, returning it to the table. “Perhaps we need a stronger stimulus. A different emotion. Or perhaps it’s simply a matter of time. That’s always how it happened before.” He checks his watch. “I’m prepared to keep you here as long asnecessary, Victor. Days. Weeks. However long it takes for your true nature to fully emerge.

“Or,” he adds casually, “you could simply tell me where Lena is, and I’d be willing to release you now. A gesture of good faith, father to son.”

“Go to hell,” I spit.

Dmitri sighs. “So American in your expressions. So…human.” He turns back to the table, selecting another item—a small glass vial filled with dark-red liquid. “But you’re not human, Victor. You never were. And the sooner you accept that truth, the easier this will be for both of us.”

He uncorks the vial, and the scent of blood fills the room—rich, intoxicating, with an unfamiliar metallic undertone that makes my fangs ache in my gums. “Do you know what this is?” he asks.

I remain silent, fighting the hunger that rises unbidden.

“This is Lena’s blood,” Dmitri says softly. “Taken when you were both brought over to the pool party. Poor girl probably never noticed. There was so much going on, wasn’t there?”

The mention of the pool party brings back the memories of the girls. Katya and Tatiana.

My sisters.

I nearly vomit at the realization.

Dmitri grins, seeming to delight in my reaction, then holds the vial near my face, not quite touching it to my lips but close enough that the scent overwhelms my senses. I turn my head away, straining against the restraints.

“Fascinating,” Dmitri murmurs. “Such control for one so young. Perhaps a different approach is needed. A different emotion needs to be stoked.”

He returns the vial to the table and comes to stand at the head of the gurney once more, looking down at me with an almost paternal expression that turns my stomach.

“Let me tell you a story, Victor. About Elizabeth Short. The Black Dahlia, as the papers so colorfully named her.”

My body goes rigid at the mention of her name.

“She was special, you know. Not just because of her blood type, though that was certainly a factor. There was something…pure about her aura. Not pure in the evangelical sense, no she was quite the tawdry whore. But in spirit. A quality we look for in our subjects.” Dmitri begins pacing slowly around the gurney again. “We’d been watching her for months. Using Cohen’s organization to bring her into our orbit. Having her make deliveries, carry messages.”

“You manipulated her,” I say, thinking of the entries in Elizabeth’s diary that Lena had described. The Europeans. The warehouse. The strange symbols.

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