CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE || ELI
Nicolas exited the store about a half hour later. A plump, middle-aged man followed him to the threshold, smiling. They appeared to be… chatting.
“What the fuck?” I whispered, staring at them through the windshield.
When Nicolas said his goodbyes to the man, he didn’t glance around like he was looking for me, which probably meant he didn’t know I was there. Instead, he went straight for his car, got in, and pulled away from the curb.
I started the car but waited until he was halfway up the block before following.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I muttered fifteen minutes later.
This wasn’t going the way I’d imagined it would.
As I watched through the windshield, Nicolas drove into the parking lot of the Los Angeles Police Department, Hollywood Station.
It was a single-story square building made of brown brick.
I parked along the side of the street near the lot entrance, giving myself a clear view of the back of the building, and watched Nicolas fish out a badge from his back pocket and enter the station through a doorway marked employees only.
Did Nicolas work for the LAPD?
What the fuck was happening?
I started to feel even more uneasy about what I was doing. There was clearly an awful lot about Nicolas I didn’t know.
Like what his favorite blood type was. And how did he select his victims? Was it random, or did he stalk them first? Did he make them suffer? Or did he kill them swiftly, the way he had killed Eric?
And what, exactly, would he do if he caught me following him?
I did my best to silence that particular line of internal questioning.
Somehow, even knowing what he was, I still felt deeply certain—in an entirely irrational, bone-deep way—that Nicolas wouldn’t harm me.
Even if he caught me red-handed. And if I thought too long about what I was actually doing—acting like a fucking crazy person, that’s what—I might stop doing it.
And then, when Nicolas apologized to me, hat in hand, and offered soothing explanations for his behavior—which he no doubt would—I might believe him.
Yeah, I needed to see for myself.
I needed to catch him in the act. Sooner or later, he would feed. Sooner or later, he would kill again. And I needed to believe, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was an irredeemable monster.
Otherwise, I might make very dangerous, very foolish choices.
And in light of that, stalking him—and whatever consequences that might bring—seemed like the safer alternative.
Besides, turnabout was fair play, wasn’t it? After all, he had stalked me first. And at the very least, I had a good reason for doing what I was doing.
But the thing no one tells you about doing a stakeout is that it’s excruciatingly boring. I sat there for two full hours, waiting for Nicolas to come back out.
When he finally did, there was a dangerous smile on his face.
Even from across the street, I could swear I saw a predatory gleam in his eye. There was a coldness to him that I had never witnessed before.
I shuddered.
A chill raced up and down my spine.
And even though it was a beautiful day in Los Angeles—with pastel blue skies and yellow sunlight dappling through the trees that lined the street, even though there were people walking by, totally oblivious and carefree—in that moment, I knew.
I wasn’t seeing the Nicolas who had pleaded with me not to ask for the truth.
I wasn’t seeing the Nicolas who had looked so stricken by my reaction to what he was—a murderer—that it had twisted my insides into horrid shapes.
I wasn’t seeing the Nicolas who had fallen asleep in my arms, who had touched me with such passion and tenderness.
I was seeing Nicolas, the smiling, cold-eyed monster.
And when he pulled out of the police station parking lot, I followed.
* * *
Nicolas drove for over an hour before taking a freeway exit to Santa Clarita. I was one lane over and nearly got creamed by a semi going far too fast in the slow lane when I merged, but I managed to take the same exit at the last second.
Keeping at least three cars between us at all times, I stayed behind him. It was harder to do here because I was less familiar with Santa Clarita than I was with Los Angeles. Everything seemed surreal, like something out of a nightmare—too technicolor-bright to be real.
But that didn’t matter. All that mattered was the gray Mercedes in front of me.
Nicolas led me to a half-completed subdivision on the outskirts of town—one of those awful cookie-cutter developments with playgrounds, rolling green lawns, and nearly identical houses. Except only half of them had actually been built.
I wasn’t foolish enough to follow him in.
Instead, I drove past.
I parked halfway down the street and waited five minutes, watching the digital clock on my dashboard tick forward, trying to control my breathing.
Then it struck me—abruptly—that I had never followed anyone before. Not once in my life had I tailed someone.
But I had known how, without even questioning it.
Even as I thought this, a dim memory came to me.
I used to be a private investigator. Not long ago, either.
I’d made a career out of taking photographic evidence of scumbags cheating on their spouses.
Following people had been one of the things I’d had to learn.
I’d owned a Buick sedan that smelled like cigarettes and eaten most of my meals out of a fast-food bag.
It had been hot and humid where I was. Everyone around me had a drawl at the end of their words, and there had been bugs half the size of my fist.
Georgia.
I had lived in Georgia.
I rubbed my temples. The memory was sharp and sudden, striking as quickly as a heartbeat. But none of this could really be happening.
Could it?
And what was I even doing?
I was lying to myself, wasn’t I?
This wasn’t really about seeing Nicolas in action at all.
It was about stopping him from hurting anyone.
I wasn’t here because I suddenly hated him.
I was here because I still loved him. Because I needed to fight for him.
And maybe—as insane as it was—deep down, I was hoping I could make myself accept Nicolas if I saw what he did with my own eyes.
It wasn’t exactly a comfortable thought to have.
Even after knowing what Nicolas was—a murderer—I was still here.
Because I loved him.
At last, when I was convinced Nicolas had entered whatever home he’d come here for, I started the car again, turned around, and drove into the half-finished subdivision.
I was acutely aware that there were very few cars in the driveways of the finished homes as I drove past. It was the middle of the day and most residents were likely at work.
Which meant no witnesses. No one to help me if I ended up being very wrong about Nicolas and what he was capable of.
If Nicolas decided he wanted two meals instead of one.
There were three houses at the end of a cul-de-sac that had been completed, but I only saw one car in a driveway—a gray Mercedes. Nicolas had parked at the last house on the left. The irony wasn’t lost on me.
I pulled close to the house and hesitated, the car idling. Now that I was here, I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to do this anymore. I tried to tell myself it was because of how ridiculously unsafe the situation was. That I was afraid. And I was.
But not for my safety.
I was afraid of what I’d find in there.
Besides, it was one thing to follow him. It was another thing entirely to break into a stranger’s home and try to surprise a murderous vampire in the act of feeding.
That was insane.
Because that’s what this was, wasn’t it? Insanity. Nicolas had upended my world, and now I couldn’t see anything else properly. He had blotted out everything: sunlight, safety, and sanity, until there was only him.
I sat in the car for several more minutes, paralyzed by indecision.
Until I heard the crack of a gunshot. And then another.
It had come from inside the house.
Nicolas wouldn’t have needed to use a gun. Which meant someone else had used it. On him.
Hardly aware of what I was doing, I sprinted from the car and up the driveway. The front door was unlocked, but I barely noticed as I wrenched it open. I would’ve kicked it down if I’d had to.
Another gunshot echoed through the house, and tears blurred my eyes, hot and sudden.
Was that the shot that had ended Nicolas’s life?
It had come from below.
The basement.
My eyes raked wildly over the hallway. No photos on the walls. No artwork. Just a neat row of men’s shoes—all the same size—lined up by the entrance.
I began wrenching open doors, searching for a stairway that would lead down to Nicolas.
Was he okay?
Was he dying?
Was he afraid?
I hesitated in the kitchen long enough to pull a butcher knife from the block.
Bringing a knife to a gunfight. Never a good idea. But it was better than nothing.
Next to the pristine marble kitchen island was a door. It was ajar. And when I crept closer, I could see it led down into the basement.
When I got close, I could hear—very faintly—a man gasping in pain.
Nicolas.
How I could be certain of that, I didn’t know. But I knew.
And the sound of his pain banished everything else from my mind.
Brandishing the knife like a villain from an ’80s slasher flick, I ran down the steps—straight into the waiting arms of danger.
Nicolas was in pain. He was wounded.
And nothing else mattered.