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)
“And the lipstick message?” I ask, noticing the smeared red letters on her chest and abdomen. I can see how one might think the P is a B.
“Certainly done by the killer, but it feels performative,” the examiner says. “Like a distraction from these other markings. Or it’s a message for us. For you.”
“Fuck you Police Department,” Lena says under her breath.
“A cover,” Coleman says, following my train of thought. “Make it look like a domestic dispute gone wrong. Her ex-husband has a history of violence. He was investigated before by the police. Make it sound like he’s sending a message to the cops. Perfect scapegoat.”
“Unless it is a message for the cops,” I say, to which Coleman shrugs.
“Maybe. But get this. She was a nurse so we already had her blood type on file. AB negative,” Coleman says.
I feel Lena tense beside me.
“Time of death?” I press.
“Between ten p.m. and midnight last night,” the examiner says. “Based on body temperature and lividity.”
Exactly when Lena and I were at the Ivanov mansion, drugged and manipulated. A perfect alibi—if we needed one.
Coleman pulls me aside as the examiner covers the body. “There’s something else,” he says quietly. “The French murder scene was less than a mile from where they found Short. We found traces of a powerful sedative in all three victims’ systems. Some compound the lab boys can’t identify. Like they drugged them before they killed them.”
Just as they’d drugged Lena and me.
“You’re onto something, aren’t you?” Coleman studies my face. “Something you’re not telling me.”
“It’s complicated,” I hedge.
“Complicated enough to get you killed?” His voice drops further. “Word on the street is Cohen is blaming you for Marco’s disappearance. You’re in a lot of danger.”
If he only knew how dangerous—vampires, rituals, blood magic. Things that would get me committed if I tried to explain them.
“I can handle Cohen,” I say instead.
Coleman snorts. “No one handles Cohen. Be careful, that’s all I’m saying.” He glances at Lena, who pretends not to be listening. “Both of you.”
After Coleman leaves, Lena and I linger in the corridor outside the autopsy room. She’s pale, paler than usual, her eyes distant.
“You’re thinking about your blood type,” I say quietly.
She nods. “If I’m AB negative…”
“We’ll find out,” I promise. “And if you are, I’ll protect you.”
Or die trying.
She takes my hand, her fingers intertwining with mine. A simple gesture that feels more intimate than anything we did under the Ivanovs’ manipulation.
“Then I’ll protect you too,” she says. “From them. And from yourself, if necessary.”
As we leave the morgue, stepping from the sterile brightness into the muted sunlight of an overcast day, I’m struck by the strange path that’s led us here. Less than a month ago, I was a man with blackouts, investigating a gruesome murder. Now I’m a vampire, falling in love with another vampire, caught in a serial killer’s crosshairs.
And somehow, impossibly, I’m not afraid. Not when Lena’s hand is in mine. Not when we face the darkness together.
Not when she can save me from myself.
24
LENA
The address we have for Jeanne French’s apartment is in a modest neighborhood in West Los Angeles, the kind of place where working women share rent to afford the California sunshine. The building is a two-story stucco affair with a small courtyard, potted geraniums adding splashes of color to an otherwise faded exterior.
“You sure about this?” I ask as Callahan parks the car across the street. The afternoon sun makes me squint despite my dark, heart-shaped glasses. Even with my vampire constitution, direct sunlight can be nuisance at times, especially when I’m stressed. “Coleman said they already interviewed the roommate.”
“And they were looking for her jealous ex-husband or a random attacker,” Callahan replies, killing the engine. “Not European vampires with a taste for ritual blood magic.”
I nod, adjusting the scarf covering my hair. Despite the unlikelihood of Cohen’s men recognizing me in this quiet neighborhood, we’re taking no chances. The last twenty-four hours have taught us both that danger lurks everywhere, ready to cloud our minds at the snap of its fingers.
As we climb the stairs to apartment 2B, I notice how Callahan positions himself slightly ahead of me—protective, instinctive. The gesture would have irritated me from anyone else, this implied assumption of my vulnerability. From him, it stirs something deeper, a recognition of the bond forming between us.
Valtu was right. I’m falling for him and falling hard. And it’s not just that he’s good in bed, that when I come I’ve never felt so alive, that when my skin is pressed against his I feel plugged in and connected. It’s that when I’m with him, I finally feel seen. Like I don’t have to hide, don’t have to wear the lipstick and the smile. I can just be me…and he likes what he sees.
Maybe one day he’ll even love it.