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)
The car behind us makes an abrupt turn at the next opportunity, driving away as if we never existed.
“They’ll remember following a different car,” Adonis explains, raising the window. “A wild goose chase that will lead them in circles until the compulsion wears off.” He gives me a proud, quiet smile. “Now, to Malibu.”
The drive to the colony takes less than an hour, the city giving way to coastline as we head north. Mist rolls in from the ocean, shrouding the road in ghostly white, isolating us from the world. It feels appropriate somehow—this liminal space between my life in the city and the sanctuary that awaits.
Adonis takes my arm as we approach the front door, a gesture both protective and supportive. “Whatever’s happened,” he says quietly, “we’ll help you through it.”
The door opens before we reach it, revealing Abe, elegant in a smoking jacket, his red hair swept back from his forehead. Behind him stands Ezra, peering at me with curiosity. From the tinkling sound of the piano in the depths of the house, I’d wager Valtu Aminoff is still staying with them.
“Lena,” Abe says, his voice warm with concern. “Come in. You look like you’ve had quite a fright.”
I step into the warmth of the house, feeling some of the tension drain from my shoulders. Here, I don’t have to pretend.
“Tell us everything,” Abe says, leading me to the living room with its panoramic view of the misty ocean. “Last we spoke, you got your fill. Are you hungry again?”
I shake my head, noting the piano notes have stopped. “It’s not about feeding. It’s about Victor Callahan.”
“The PI,” Valtu says from the doorway as he leans against it, sipping from a goblet, looking every inch the Dark Prince in his black attire and wavy hair. “The one you pretended to not have feelings for.”
“We told you not to get involved,” Abe chides.
I give the doctor a pointed look. “And have you ever known me to listen?”
“Fair enough,” Abe says. “So, what about Callahan?”
Ezra comes by and gives me a glass of wine mixed with blood, preserved with anticoagulants, a favorite pick me up. I take it eagerly, finishing half the glass before Ezra laughs, making me stop. My hand is trembling as I place it down on the glass coffee table.
“Callahan and Marco,” I tell them, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. Then I launch into everything that’s happened since the last I was here, including the bits I wish I could hide—the fact that I slept with Callahan.
“And now Marco’s missing,” I finish, downing the rest of the glass. “Cohen came to see me at the club tonight, thinks I know something about it. Or that Callahan does.”
“And do you?” Abe asks, watching me carefully.
Ezra hands me another glass. I take a careful sip, feeling strength returning to my limbs. “No. But Callahan was furious. The way he attacked Marco—I’ve never seen a human so violent. So…unleashed.” I hesitate. “There’s something different about him. Something not quite right.”
“Hmmm. And you think he killed your Marco?” Ezra asks, now sprawled in an armchair, deceptively casual.
“I don’t know. I don’t want to believe it. But if he did…” I meet Abe’s steady gaze. “I wouldn’t blame him.”
Abe sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Lena, you know becoming involved with humans is dangerous. Especially humans connected to a murder investigation.”
“I’m not involved with him,” I protest. “I just slept with him.”
Valtu snorts in response.
“Your face says otherwise, cara mia,” says Ezra teasingly.
I glare at him, but Abe continues before I can respond.
“Regardless of your personal feelings, this Callahan is a complication we don’t need right now.” He leans forward, brows knitting together. “These symbols you described from the warehouse, the ones from Elizabeth’s diary—can you draw them for me?”
I nod, accepting the paper and pen Adonis silently provides. I sketch the symbols as best I can remember them—curved lines intersecting with sharp angles, circles containing what looked like stars or runes.
Abe studies my drawing, his expression growing grave. “Hmmm. I was afraid of that.”
Valtu crosses over and looks over Abe’s shoulder at the drawing, sucking in his breath at the sight.
“What?” I ask.
“These are Skardic symbols—ancient magic used by certain vampire bloodlines, primarily from Eastern Europe,” Abe explains.
“Vampires practicing magic?” I ask, incredulous. “Like witches do? Is that even possible?”
“It’s rare,” Valtu says. “But it can happen. Some vampires have the ability to barter with witches, to learn the spells and tricks from them.” He pauses. “Before, you mentioned seeing blood under the door when the intruder was in your house. Maybe that was a hallucination. Or maybe it was magic.”
“But witches and vampires hate each other. Witches kill vampires,” I point out.
Valtu shrugs and has another sip of his drink. “I’m not saying I like witches. I’m just saying.”