Page 33 of Nocturne

Blood.

Fresh blood.

My fangs descend involuntarily, the vampire hunger rising in response to the scent. I stumble back, fighting the dual response of terror and thirst.

What the hell is in my bathroom?

The blood continues to flow, impossibly copious, reaching toward my bare feet. I press myself against the opposite wall, heart hammering in my chest.

Then, without warning, the bathroom door swings open.

A scream dies in my throat, my heart threatening to break free of my ribs.

Empty.

It’s completely empty.

No blood. No intruder. Just my small, ordinary bathroom, exactly as I left it before going to bed.

I stare at the clean floor where, seconds ago, a pool of blood had been spreading. Nothing. Not even a trace of moisture.

What the hell is going on?

A soft sound from my bedroom spins me around. The whisper of fabric against furniture, the subtle shift of weight on floorboards.

I edge along the wall back toward it, keeping my back to the solid surface. I wished I had a gun. I never thought I needed one until now.

My bedroom is a maze of shadows from this angle, the faint glow of streetlights filtering through the window. The open window that I know I had closed before I went to sleep.

Movement by the window draws my eye.

I gasp.

A figure crosses from one shadow to another, too quickly to make out features, but unmistakably human in shape until it becomes the darkness again.

Then…

There’s no one.

The curtains by the window billow inward, dancing in a breeze that shouldn’t exist.

I approach it cautiously, coming to a stop when I nearly trip over the rug.

I stare down at the floor in horror.

The rug has been pulled away, the floorboards pried up.

I cry out softly and drop to my knees, thrusting my hand into the cavity and feeling for Elizabeth’s diary, but it’s gone. Everything else is there, all my jewels and cash, but not that.

Somehow, someone managed to not only get into my room but also find her hidden diary, all while I was distracted by blood in the bathroom.

I get to my feet, my hands at my chest, the terror hammering my heart, and slowly cross to the window. Looking out, I see the street three floors below, empty save for parked cars and pools of lamplight on wet pavement.

Then I spot him—across the street, a figure stands motionless in the shadows between buildings. Too far for human eyes to make out details, but my vision catches the momentary flare of a cigarette’s ember as the figure takes a drag and I can feel them watching my window with unnerving intensity.

The ember drops, crushed beneath a shoe. The figure melts back into the darkness.

I slam the window shut, locking it with shaking hands.

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