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)
Blood.
Old blood.
Callahan moves with surprising silence for a man his size, making his way toward the center of the space. I follow, my vampire vision adjusting quickly to the dimness. There are marks on the concrete floor—dark stains that would be nearly invisible to human eyes, but to me, they tell a story of violence.
“There was a table here,” Callahan says, crouching to examine the floor. “Heavy. Left these scratches.”
I kneel beside him, careful not to touch the stains. “How can you see that in this light?”
He glances up, momentarily confused, then shrugs. “Good eyes.”
Too good, I think, filing away another anomaly about Victor Callahan.
“What do you think happened here?” I ask, playing human, though my senses are screaming the answer.
“Nothing good.” He rises, scanning the walls. “But whatever it was, they cleaned up thoroughly afterward.”
I follow his gaze. The walls are bare except for…wait. I move closer to the eastern wall, where faint outlines are visible beneath a hasty coat of whitewash.
“Callahan,” I call softly. “Look at this.”
He joins me, standing close enough that I can feel his body heat. Together we study the partially obscured markings—symbols I recognize from Elizabeth’s diary. Symbols that seem to call to me like something from my past.
My blood runs cold. Elizabeth had stumbled onto something far worse than Cohen’s criminal operations. I know it.
“What is it?” Callahan asks, voice low.
“They’re the same ones in her diary,” I say, tracing the air above one symbol without touching the wall. “Some kind of…cult symbols, maybe? A weird religion?”
Before he can respond, a noise from outside freezes us both. Car doors slamming. Multiple footsteps approaching.
Callahan’s hand finds the small of my back, guiding me toward the rear exit. “Time to go,” he whispers.
We slip out the back door just as the front entrance crashes open. Keeping low, we make our way along the building’s edge to the narrow gap between warehouses. The voices inside are muffled, but the tone is unmistakable—anger, urgency.
One voice rises above the others, accented and commanding. “Someone was here. Check the surrounding buildings.”
Callahan pulls me into the shadow of a loading dock as footsteps circle the building. His body shields mine, arm braced against the wall beside my head. We’re close enough that I can count his heartbeats, feel the warmth of his breath against my hair.
For a moment, the danger recedes, and all I’m aware of is his proximity—the slight tremor in his muscles, the scent of his skin, the way his gaze drops briefly to my lips before returning to my eyes. It’s all-consuming, taking over every cell in my body, slowly but surely. When he moves slightly, I swear I feel the hard press of his cock against my thigh, making my mouth water.
The moment stretches, electric and dangerous. I find myself leaning imperceptibly closer, drawn by something beyond physical attraction. Something deep and primal that’s been hiding in my blood.
His free hand rises, hesitating just shy of touching my face.
Do it, I think. Touch me. Kiss me. Fuck me.
Part of me is scared I might reach him, might compel him.
Scared he might do it.
The spell breaks at the sound of approaching footsteps. A man in a dark suit appears at the end of the alley, scanning the shadows. He looks directly at our hiding place, but his gaze slides past without recognition.
After he moves on, we remain frozen for several breaths.
“Friend of yours?” Callahan whispers, still pressed close.
“Not that I know,” I reply. “We should separate. They’re probably looking for me, not you.”
He frowns. “I’m not leaving you—”
“I can handle myself,” I interrupt. “Trust me.”
His reluctance is palpable. “You sure?”
“I’m sure. I’m a big girl. I’ve survived this long. And being seen with me right now will only lead to trouble.”
He nods, conceding. “Be careful, Lena.”
The use of my first name startles me. More startling still is how natural it sounds in his voice.
It feels like a song.
“Always am,” I murmur, slipping from beneath his arm.
I make my way back to my car through a maze of side streets, mind racing with implications. The symbols on the wall, the blood, strange men searching the warehouse—it all connects to Elizabeth’s murder, I’m certain of that now.
But how?
And why can’t I shake the feeling that Victor Callahan is somehow part of this mystery too? Not just investigating it, but embedded within it in ways neither of us yet understands.
8
CALLAHAN
Elizabeth Short’s room at the Barclay is exactly as she left it—a testament to death’s sudden arrival, or perhaps to the LAPD’s indifference to a dead girl’s meager possessions.
I flash my credentials to Mrs. Rossi, the tired-eyed landlady who seems caught between macabre interest in her infamous former tenant and fear that the association might drive away future business. She unlocks the door with shaking hands before retreating back to her first-floor apartment, leaving me alone in the small, tidy space.