Page 2 of Nocturne

“Somewhere private.” Her companion remained half-turned away, his face still frustratingly obscured under the brim of his fedora. “I find negotiations go more smoothly without…distractions.”

“You haven’t even told me what this opportunity is.”

He chuckled softly. “Patience, Ms. Short. Patience is the virtue that makes dreams come true in this town. All will become clear soon.”

As they turned onto a darkened industrial street, Elizabeth reached for the door handle. “I’ve changed my mind. I’d like to go back now.”

His hand shot out, gripping her wrist with shocking strength. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

For the first time, he turned fully toward her, and Elizabeth caught a glimpse of his face—utterly handsome, severe, with eyes that seemed to gleam unnaturally in the dim car interior.

“Who are you?” she whispered, panic seizing her like a phantom.

“Just an errand boy.” He maintained his grip, seemingly without effort.

The car slowed before an unmarked building, its windows dark, save for a faint red glow emanating from one upper floor. The engine cut off, leaving them in silence.

“Please,” Elizabeth said, her voice barely audible. “I don’t want this. Whatever this is. I don’t want it anymore.”

“What you want is immaterial.” He leaned closer, and for one terrifying moment, she thought she saw something shift in his face—a momentary transformation into something inhuman. “What matters is what you are.”

“And what am I?”

His smile widened. “The gateway.”

Then he opened the car door, and as he did so, she managed to wrench free of his grasp, throwing open her own door and bolting down the dark street with no destination beyondaway. Her heels clattered against the pavement, slowing her down. She kicked them off, continuing barefoot, the rough concrete scraping her feet. Occasionally she’d step on something sharp, causing her to cry out, but she had no choice but to keep going.

Behind her, she heard nothing—no running footsteps, no shouts. Just silence.

Somehow, that was worse.

The street turned a corner and ended at a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. Elizabeth followed it left, into an alley that stank of garbage and urine. Her lungs burned, her legs trembled with exhaustion. She needed to find a main road, a telephone, a police officer—anything.

The alley opened onto another deserted street. Elizabeth paused, bent double, gasping for breath. When she straightened, he was standing ten feet away.

He hadn’t been there a second ago.

“How—” she began, backing away.

“Running only makes it more difficult,” he said conversationally, as if they were discussing the weather. “For both of us.”

Elizabeth turned to flee in the opposite direction but the man was fast. His hand clamped over her mouth. Sharp pain exploded at her neck.

Her world faded to black.

At dawn,a vacant lot in Leimert Park received its grisly offering. The body had been arranged with artistic precision—positioned just so, a macabre display for the morning jogger who would discover it.

The newspapers would soon call her the Black Dahlia.

But to the figure watching from the shadows as the first police cars arrived, she was simply the beginning.

1

LENA

Blood red.

The dress, the gloves, the shoes, the lipstick.

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