Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Deliberate.
Stalking.
Without turning my head, I slip my hand into my purse, fingers closing around the handle of my silver knife. My vampire strength gives me an advantage over most humans, but I’ve learned never to be overconfident, especially not in public.
Especially not with Betty’s killer still walking free. Even I don’t think I’d survive with my body cut in half.
The next intersection is better lit, with a late-night diner on the corner. If I can reach it, blend in with the other patrons…
The footsteps quicken suddenly. I resist the urge to run—predators chase what flees, I should know—and instead maintain my steady pace, though every nerve ending screams at me to run as fast as I can.
A sound behind me, shoes splashing through a puddle.
Closer now.
Much closer.
I spin around, knife half-drawn from my purse, prepared to confront my stalker.
The street is empty.
Rain falls in sheets, obscuring visibility beyond a few yards, but there’s no one there. No figure in the shadows, no sound of retreating footsteps. Just the patter of raindrops and the distant wail of a police siren.
For a moment, I wonder if my nerves are getting the better of me. If grief for Betty has me jumping at shadows.
Then I see it—a cigarette butt on the sidewalk, still smoking, the ember dying in the rain. Whoever was following me was here seconds ago, close enough to touch. And now they’ve vanished, as if they were never there at all.
I continue toward the diner, faster now, no longer caring if I appear frightened. Because I am. Not just for my own safety—though it might take more than a stalker to kill a vampire—but because of what this means.
Someone is watching me.
Following me.
The same someone who killed Betty?
Or someone else entirely?
As I reach the diner’s brightly lit entrance, I glance back one last time. For an instant—so brief I might have imagined it—I think I see a figure standing in the shadows across the street. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Watching.
Then a passing car’s headlights sweep the spot, and there’s nothing there.
Just rain, and darkness, and the growing certainty that I’m being hunted.
4
CALLAHAN
The headache starts as I’m leaving the office, a dull throb behind my right eye.
Night has fallen over Los Angeles, the streets glossy with recent rain, neon signs reflecting in puddles like portals to some garish underworld. I loosen my tie as I walk to my car, irritated by how the fabric seems to constrict my throat.
These headaches have been getting worse. More frequent.
I unlock the Oldsmobile, sliding behind the wheel and sitting for a moment in the dark. The folder with Elizabeth Short’s photos and letters rests on the passenger seat. Virginia West’s distress still lingers in my mind—the quiet dignity of her grief, the determination to find justice for a sister she barely knew.
Starting the car, I pull into the sparse evening traffic. I need food, a shower, and sleep, in that order. Tomorrow I’ll see Coleman, get what information the LAPD is willing to share about the Black Dahlia. There’s a rhythm to investigations, steps that can’t be rushed.
The pain intensifies as I drive, spreading from behind my eye to encompass my entire skull. Lights from oncoming cars seem too bright, each one sending daggers through my retinas. I fumble in my pocket for aspirin, dry-swallowing two tablets without taking my eyes off the road.
They don’t help.
By the time I reach the diner three blocks from my apartment, the pain has become a pulsing entity, something alive inside my head. I park and rest my forehead against the steering wheel, waiting for the aspirin to kick in.
Just need to eat something. Low blood sugar, that’s all.
I manage to make it inside, claiming a booth in the back. The waitress—Doris, who’s seen me at my best and worst—takes one look at me and brings water without being asked.
“You look like death warmed over, Vic,” she says, sliding the glass toward me.
“Feel it too.” I squint up at her. “The usual, please.”
She nods and disappears, leaving me to massage my temples. The diner’s sounds—clinking silverware, murmured conversations, the sizzle of the grill—seem amplified, painfully loud. The fluorescent lights overhead flicker, sending shooting pains through my skull with each pulse.
Something’s not right with me. Is this what a migraine is? It’s like my senses are overloaded.
The thought forms through the fog of pain just as Doris returns with my coffee. I try to thank her, but my tongue feels wrong in my mouth, clumsy and thick. The cup trembles in my hand as I bring it to my lips.
Then it happens.
The diner tilts sideways, colors blurring together like wet paint. A high-pitched whine fills my ears, drowning out all other sounds. I grip the edge of the table, knuckles white with effort, but I can’t seem to anchor myself.
“Vic?” Doris’s voice comes from far away. “You alright, hon?”