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)
“Or,” he adds casually, “you could simply tell me where Lena is, and I’d be willing to release you now. A gesture of good faith, father to son.”
“Go to hell,” I spit.
Dmitri sighs. “So American in your expressions. So…human.” He turns back to the table, selecting another item—a small glass vial filled with dark-red liquid. “But you’re not human, Victor. You never were. And the sooner you accept that truth, the easier this will be for both of us.”
He uncorks the vial, and the scent of blood fills the room—rich, intoxicating, with an unfamiliar metallic undertone that makes my fangs ache in my gums. “Do you know what this is?” he asks.
I remain silent, fighting the hunger that rises unbidden.
“This is Lena’s blood,” Dmitri says softly. “Taken when you were both brought over to the pool party. Poor girl probably never noticed. There was so much going on, wasn’t there?”
The mention of the pool party brings back the memories of the girls. Katya and Tatiana.
My sisters.
I nearly vomit at the realization.
Dmitri grins, seeming to delight in my reaction, then holds the vial near my face, not quite touching it to my lips but close enough that the scent overwhelms my senses. I turn my head away, straining against the restraints.
“Fascinating,” Dmitri murmurs. “Such control for one so young. Perhaps a different approach is needed. A different emotion needs to be stoked.”
He returns the vial to the table and comes to stand at the head of the gurney once more, looking down at me with an almost paternal expression that turns my stomach.
“Let me tell you a story, Victor. About Elizabeth Short. The Black Dahlia, as the papers so colorfully named her.”
My body goes rigid at the mention of her name.
“She was special, you know. Not just because of her blood type, though that was certainly a factor. There was something…pure about her aura. Not pure in the evangelical sense, no she was quite the tawdry whore. But in spirit. A quality we look for in our subjects.” Dmitri begins pacing slowly around the gurney again. “We’d been watching her for months. Using Cohen’s organization to bring her into our orbit. Having her make deliveries, carry messages.”
“You manipulated her,” I say, thinking of the entries in Elizabeth’s diary that Lena had described. The Europeans. The warehouse. The strange symbols.
The promised dreams, dangled like a carrot.
“We cultivated her,” Dmitri corrects. “Prepared her. And when the time was right, we brought her to the fold.” He pauses, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Or rather, you did.”
The words hit me like a slap across the face.
“What?”
“January 9th. The Biltmore Hotel. Elizabeth was waiting in the lobby for her contact—a man who would introduce her to people who would change her life.” Dmitri watches my face carefully. “You approached her, Victor. In your vampire state, under my control. You brought her to us. You.”
“No,” I whisper, but even as I deny it, images flash through my mind—fragments of memory I can’t place, can’t contextualize. Watching a woman in black sitting alone in an opulent lobby, waiting anxiously. The resigned look on her face when she stepped out the main doors and saw me. The smell of her fear as she realized something was wrong.
“For three days, we prepared her for the ritual. The carved symbols, the careful positioning—everything must be precise for the gateway to open.” Dmitri’s voice takes on a lecturer’s cadence, dispassionate and clinical. “And when the time came for the final act, you were there again. To complete the cycle. To drain her of the last of her blood.”
“Stop,” I plead, but he continues relentlessly.
“You drank deeply that night, Victor. Your first true feeding. The beginning of your awakening.”
The taste of copper fills my mouth as the memory crashes through the walls I’ve built around it—Elizabeth Short’s lifeless body, her slashed mouth, the slices and burns across her skin, the hot rush of blood. And me, drinking until full, my humanity receding with each swallow.
“No,” I say again, but the denial is hollow. I know it’s true. Can feel the truth of it resonating in my bones, in my blood.
I killed Elizabeth Short.
I drained her blood and consumed it. I am the monster I’ve been hunting all along.
“Of course, we didn’t know Virginia West would hire you to track the killer. I have to say it added a whole new element to our experiment. You were looking for him without even an inkling that you were looking for yourself. But then you started to pull the wrong threads, got mixed up with Cohen and his boys and his boys’ woman. What a tangled web you weaved for yourself, Victor.”
Tears burn at the corners of my eyes—tears of rage, of grief, of self-loathing. “Why are you telling me this?” I demand, voice breaking.