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)
My attention sharpens. “You knew Elizabeth?”
“Intimately.” The word carries weight, suggestion. “I have information about her death. Information you won’t find in police reports or coroner’s notes.”
I should be suspicious. Should question how she found me, why she’s approaching me now. But something about her holds my focus, clouds my judgment. I find myself nodding, listening as she continues.
“Not here,” she says, glancing around with cool blue eyes. “Somewhere private. I can show you evidence that will change everything you think you know about Elizabeth’s murder.”
Warning bells sound dimly in the back of my mind, but they’re muffled, distant. I know I should call Lena, should tell someone where I’m going, but the thought slips away as quickly as it forms.
21
CALLAHAN
The Oldsmobile grumbles beneath us as we wind up the curving roads into the Burbank hills, smog hanging above us like a cloak. I grip the steering wheel tightly, following the woman’s directions without question. There’s a fog in my mind I can’t shake—not the usual haze of a blackout, but something different. More directed.
“Left at the fork,” she says, her voice carrying that subtle European accent. This brunette, who approached me outside the station with promises of information about Elizabeth Short, sits beside me like she belongs there.
“How much further?” I ask, my own voice sounding distant to my ears.
“Not far. Just beyond those trees.” She gestures toward a dense copse of eucalyptus and oak ahead, silhouetted against the brown sky. “You’re doing well, Victor. Very well.”
I should be suspicious. Should question why I’m driving a stranger up into isolated hills, especially when there’s a serial killer on the loose. But each time doubt surfaces, it dissolves like mist under morning sun, replaced by a strange compulsion to continue.
To not ask too many questions.
We pass through wrought iron gates standing open like hungry jaws, drive up a long gravel driveway lined with ancient oaks that seem to watch our approach. The mansion that appears ahead is massive—Mediterranean style, with warm lights glowing from dozens of windows, an estate that would make William Randolph Hearst give it the thumbs up.
“Welcome to our humble home,” the brunette says, a predatory smile playing at the corners of her sly mouth.
I kill the engine and stare at the house. Music drifts through the evening air—something classical I can’t identify, underscored by laughter and the splash of water.
“You seem confused,” she observes, laying an ice-cold hand on my arm. “Don’t worry. Everything will make sense soon enough.”
She guides me up the marble steps to massive double doors that open before we reach them. A man in formal attire bows slightly, his eyes never quite meeting mine.
“Ms. Tatiana,” he murmurs. “Your sister has been expecting you.”
“Is our other guest comfortable?” Tatiana asks.
“Quite,” the man replies with a thin smile. “She and Ms. Katya are upstairs.”
Tatiana leads me through a grand foyer into what appears to be a party in full swing. Elegant men and women in evening wear mingle around a sprawling living area that opens onto a massive backyard. Beyond tall glass doors, a swimming pool gleams turquoise, surrounded by lounging figures.
But something’s off about the guests. They move with too much precision, their laughter too calculated. And their eyes—they follow me with an intensity that makes my skin crawl. Hungry eyes.
Vampires?
“Drink?” Tatiana offers, plucking a crystal glass from a passing server.
I take it automatically, sipping the amber liquid without thought. It burns pleasantly going down, leaves a metallic aftertaste.
“Good, isn’t it?” she purrs. “A special blend. Family recipe.”
As we move through the crowd, I notice things I shouldn’t be able to see in the dim lighting—the pulse at a woman’s throat, the dilation of a man’s pupils as he stares at a passing waitress, the nearly imperceptible movement of insects and creatures lurking in the garden’s shadows.
And other things—couples entwined in dark corners, on divans partially hidden by potted palms. Some wear ornate masks that conceal half their faces, their motions clearly sexual beneath silk and satin clothing.
It’s like stepping into some strange, decadent dream.
“My sister’s guests appreciate…physical pleasures,” she explains, following my gaze to where a masked, topless woman straddles a man on a chaise, fucking him with abandon, her head thrown back in ecstasy. “Being immortal can lead to certain…appetites.”
Immortal. The word echoes in my addled brain.
So they are vampires.
This can’t be good.
And yet I can’t seem to do anything about it.
She steers me toward a grand staircase, her hand at the small of my back like a brand. “Dmitri wanted to meet you of course, but he has…plans for tonight. You’ll have to forgive his absence.”
We ascend the stairs, passing more couples in various states of undress, their faces contorted in pleasure or something darker. A man glances up as we pass, blood visible on his lips, the woman beneath him smiling dreamily despite a thin red line dripping from her neck.