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 room tilts around me as the implications sink in. “You’re saying…Callahan is Dmitri’s son? He’s an Ivanov?”
“By blood, yes,” Abe confirms gently. “Though not by choice or knowledge.”
“That’s why he’s so strong,” I murmur, remembering how he matched Konstantin in combat despite his newborn status. “Why his transition has been so strange…so violent.”
“And why Dmitri won’t kill him,” Ezra adds, trying to assuage me. “The Ivanovs are obsessed with bloodlines, with legacy. Dmitri won’t destroy his own son, no matter how he was raised.”
“He’ll try to turn him instead,” I say, cold certainty settling in my stomach. “To bring him into the family. To make him an Ivanov in truth as well as blood.”
The silence confirms my fear.
“And you found this out through your detective work too?”
“We suspected when you first described him,” Abe admits. “A vampire who didn’t know what he was until his thirty-fifth birthday? A vampire that was adopted? Then when Valtu met him…”
“He moves like Dmitri,” Valtu interrupts. “Looks like Dmitri, too. I know the Ivanovs. He has the same patterns, the same instincts. Blood remembers, even when the mind doesn’t.”
I rise abruptly, pacing across the room as I try to process everything. Callahan, an Ivanov by blood. A son of the man behind Elizabeth’s murder, behind the ritual killings, behind the horror we’ve witnessed. The same blood flows in his veins as in Dmitri’s, as in Katya’s and the now-dead Tatiana’s.
Wait a minute.
“Tatiana,” I say slowly, making a face. “Katya. They’re his sisters?”
Abe nods. “Yes.”
I grimace, my stomach growing queasy.
“Something wrong?”
I shake my head. I’m not going to get into the fact that his sister did some questionable acts with Callahan, right in front of me. Thank god she’s dead.
And thank god he isn’t one of them. His blood doesn’t define him, any more than my AB negative status defines me.
“We need to find him,” I say, turning back to face the others with new conviction. “Before Dmitri can convince him that blood is destiny. Before he makes Callahan into something he isn’t.”
“We will,” Abe promises. “But not tonight. We need to plan. The Ivanovs will be expecting an immediate rescue attempt. And first we have to find them.”
Logic tells me he’s right, but every instinct screams to go now, to try and find Callahan before it’s too late. I think of him alone with Dmitri, learning the truth of his parentage, being offered power beyond imagining. Would he resist? Would the man I love withstand that temptation?
I have to believe he would. Have to believe that the connection between us is stronger than blood ties he never knew existed.
“First light,” I say, making it clear this isn’t a request. “We start searching at first light. We do as Callahan would and turn over every stone, follow every lead, and we don’t give up until we find out where the Ivanovs have taken him. I won’t leave him with them a moment longer than necessary.”
Abe studies me for a long moment, then nods. “First light,” he agrees. “But until then, you rest. You heal. You prepare. We all do.”
The others filter out of the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts. Through the side windows, I can see the lights of Los Angeles spread out below like a carpet of stars brought down to earth, the curve of Palos Verdes and San Pedro right behind it. Somewhere out there, Callahan is facing the darkest truth of his existence.
I press my hand against the cool glass, a silent promise carried on the night air.
Hold on, Victor. I’m coming for you. No matter what.
28
CALLAHAN
Idrift back to consciousness slowly, moving through layers of darkness like swimming up from the bottom of a deep lake. With each passing moment, sensation returns—first the dull throb of pain at the base of my skull, then the cold bite of metal against my wrists and ankles, then the flickering orange glow against my closed eyelids.
My head pounds with a ferocious intensity that makes coherent thought difficult. Fragments of memory come in disjointed flashes—the Crimson Clover, vampires feeding on drugged humans, Valtu tearing out Tatiana’s heart, the chaos of battle, Lena’s voice calling my name.
A blue glowing blade.
Then nothing.
I force my eyes open, blinking against the stabbing pain that accompanies the effort. The room swims into focus gradually—stone walls, high ceiling, no windows. Candles burn in wrought iron holders spaced around the perimeter, casting long shadows that seem to writhe with a life of their own.
I’m secured to what appears to be a medical gurney, thick metal restraints binding my wrists and ankles. The bonds are heavier than standard hospital equipment—designed, I suspect, to hold someone with vampire strength.
“Welcome back to the land of the living,” a voice says from somewhere beyond my limited field of vision. “And to think some call us the undead.”