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 speaker steps into view, and recognition slams into me. The man from the morgue—the one I’d seen briefly standing in the corner when I was staring at Elizabeth Short’s mutilated body. Tall, distinguished bearing, with black hair and silver at his temples that only enhances the aristocratic planes of his face. He can’t be older than me and yet he has the air of someone who has been around a very long time. I hadn’t seen him clearly then, had thought him just another official.
Now I know better.
“Dmitri Ivanov,” I say, my voice a dry rasp.
He inclines his head slightly, acknowledging the identification. “And you are Victor Callahan. Private investigator. Former boxer. Former soldier.” His mouth curves in what might be a smile on a human face, but on his, it’s merely a predatory baring of teeth. “Former human.”
I test the restraints subtly, assessing their strength without betraying my intent. They don’t budge.
“Don’t bother,” Dmitri says, watching my efforts with mild amusement. “Those shackles are designed to hold creatures far older and stronger than you.” He moves to stand at the foot of the gurney, studying me with unsettling intensity. “Though I must say, your strength has developed impressively for one so newly transitioned.”
“What do you want from me?” I demand, forcing authority into my voice despite my vulnerable position.
“What do I want?” Dmitri echoes, seeming genuinely puzzled by the question. “I want what any father wants. To know his son.”
The words hang in the air between us, absurd and impossible. I stare at him, waiting for the punchline, but his expression remains earnest.
“I’m not your son,” I say flatly.
“I beg to differ.” He steps closer, his movements fluid and precise. “Your transition at thirty-five. Your extraordinary strength for a newborn vampire. You’re the product of an ancient, powerful bloodline.” He reaches out, his fingers hovering just above my face though not touching it. “And of course, there are the physical similarities. Your mother’s coloring, perhaps, but my features. My jawline. My eyes….my hunger.”
I turn my face away from his hand. “My parents were Michael and Eleanor Callahan,” I say through gritted teeth. “Decent, loving people who raised me to be nothing like you.”
“Ah, yes. Them Callahans.” Dmitri circles the gurney slowly, each step measured. “Childless. Desperate. So grateful when the adoption agency offered them a healthy three-year-old boy, no questions asked. They never knew what you really were, of course. That was the point of the experiment.”
“Experiment?” I repeat, dread coiling in my stomach.
Dmitri stops at the head of the gurney, looking down at me with something like pride. “Nature versus nurture. Would vampire nature assert itself even without knowledge or preparation? Would blood truly tell, even when raised by humans in complete ignorance of your heritage?” His smile widens. “And the answer, it seems, is yes. Blood always tells in the end.”
No. I can’t be related to this man, can’t be this monster’s son.
“You’re lying,” I say, but the conviction has drained from my voice.
“Am I?” Dmitri produces a small silver case from his jacket pocket. From it, he withdraws a yellowed photograph which he holds before my eyes. A woman holding an infant, her face young and beautiful despite the exhaustion evident in her eyes. “Your mother,” he says softly. “Natasha. She died shortly after this was taken. Childbirth can be difficult for our kind. Mentally. She couldn’t hack it; she hacked away at herself.”
I stare at the photograph, searching for any resemblance to the face I see in my mirror each morning. The shape of the eyes, perhaps. The line of the nose. But nothing conclusive, nothing that proves this isn’t an elaborate deception.
“Why?” I manage to ask. “Why give me up? Why monitor me from afar if I was your son?”
“Science,” Dmitri replies simply. “Knowledge. Our kind has existed for eons, but there is still so much we don’t understand about our own nature. Your life has been one long case study in the immutability of blood.” He returns the photograph to its case. “And I must say, the results have been fascinating.”
“You’ve been watching me my whole life,” I say, the realization washing over me in a wave of violated privacy. “Following me. Monitoring me.”
“Of course. Every milestone, every achievement, every failure. Your boxing career. Your marriage. Your military service. All of it collected and analyzed.” Dmitri’s expression softens slightly. “I’m proud of you, Victor. Despite your human upbringing, you’ve shown the strength and resilience of your true bloodline.”
A horrible thought occurs to me. “Catherine,” I say, her name barely audible. “You were monitoring our marriage? You didn’t—?”
“An unfortunate necessity,” Dmitri interrupts. “You needed to be free of attachments, needed to be in Los Angeles for the next phase, to come home to us. Your wife’s death accomplished both.”
For a moment, the world goes white with rage. I strain against the restraints with every ounce of strength I possess, metal creaking under the pressure. “You murdered her,” I snarl, my voice unrecognizable even to myself. “You murdered my wife.”