Page 134 of Nocturne

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.”

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