Page 96 of Nocturne

After Coleman leaves, Lena and I linger in the corridor outside the autopsy room. She’s pale, paler than usual, her eyes distant.

“You’re thinking about your blood type,” I say quietly.

She nods. “If I’m AB negative…”

“We’ll find out,” I promise. “And if you are, I’ll protect you.”

Or die trying.

She takes my hand, her fingers intertwining with mine. A simple gesture that feels more intimate than anything we did under the Ivanovs’ manipulation.

“Then I’ll protect you too,” she says. “From them. And from yourself, if necessary.”

As we leave the morgue, stepping from the sterile brightness into the muted sunlight of an overcast day, I’m struck by the strange path that’s led us here. Less than a month ago, I was a man with blackouts, investigating a gruesome murder. Now I’m a vampire, falling in love with another vampire, caught in a serial killer’s crosshairs.

And somehow, impossibly, I’m not afraid. Not when Lena’s hand is in mine. Not when we face the darkness together.

Not when she can save me from myself.

24

LENA

The address we have for Jeanne French’s apartment is in a modest neighborhood in West Los Angeles, the kind of place where working women share rent to afford the California sunshine. The building is a two-story stucco affair with a small courtyard, potted geraniums adding splashes of color to an otherwise faded exterior.

“You sure about this?” I ask as Callahan parks the car across the street. The afternoon sun makes me squint despite my dark, heart-shaped glasses. Even with my vampire constitution, direct sunlight can be nuisance at times, especially when I’m stressed. “Coleman said they already interviewed the roommate.”

“And they were looking for her jealous ex-husband or a random attacker,” Callahan replies, killing the engine. “Not European vampires with a taste for ritual blood magic.”

I nod, adjusting the scarf covering my hair. Despite the unlikelihood of Cohen’s men recognizing me in this quiet neighborhood, we’re taking no chances. The last twenty-four hours have taught us both that danger lurks everywhere, ready to cloud our minds at the snap of its fingers.

As we climb the stairs to apartment 2B, I notice how Callahan positions himself slightly ahead of me—protective, instinctive. The gesture would have irritated me from anyone else, this implied assumption of my vulnerability. From him, it stirs something deeper, a recognition of the bond forming between us.

Valtu was right. I’m falling for him and falling hard. And it’s not just that he’s good in bed, that when I come I’ve never felt so alive, that when my skin is pressed against his I feel plugged in and connected. It’s that when I’m with him, I finally feel seen. Like I don’t have to hide, don’t have to wear the lipstick and the smile. I can just beme…and he likes what he sees.

Maybe one day he’ll even love it.

Maybe he’ll even love me.

Callahan knocks firmly on the door. A woman in her early forties answers, with tired eyes and hair pulled back in a practical bun. She wears a nurse’s uniform, clearly just home from a shift at the hospital.

“Margaret Wilson?” Callahan asks, showing his credentials. “Victor Callahan, private investigator. This is my associate, Miss Reid. We’d like to ask you some questions about Jeanne French.”

Margaret’s expression tightens. “The police already took my statement.”

“We’re working with the family,” I say smoothly, adding just a hint of compulsion to my voice—not enough to control, just enough to soothe her wariness. “Just trying to understand what happened to Jeanne. May we come in?”

She steps back, gesturing us inside. The apartment is neat but spartan, furnished with mismatched pieces. Photographs on the mantle show two women in their nursing uniforms, arms around each other’s shoulders, smiling against backdrops of different hospitals.

“You were friends for a long time,” Callahan observes, nodding toward the pictures.

Margaret’s composure cracks slightly. “Since training. We served in the South Pacific together during the war.” She gestures for us to sit on a worn sofa while she takes the armchair opposite. “What do you want to know that I haven’t already told the police?”

“We’re particularly interested in Jeanne’s relationships,” Callahan begins carefully. “Anyone new in her life recently, especially in the last few months.”

Margaret’s eyes narrow. “You’re not really with the family, are you? Jeanne’s sister wouldn’t send private investigators. She can barely afford the funeral.”

Callahan and I exchange glances. “No,” he admits. “Not on behalf ofherfamily. We’re investigating a series of deaths that may be connected to Jeanne’s murder. The police are treating it as an isolated incident, but we have reason to believe there’s more to it.”

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