Roaring Shadows: Macey Book 2 (The Gardella Vampire Hunters 8) (11 page)

Presumably, the “evidence” was somewhere in the fire, or nearby…and then he remembered the large tarp. Spinning, uncaring whether anyone was around to hear him—though he sincerely doubted it—he dashed back the way he’d come and found the canvas cloth. It was large and heavy and dusty—but exactly what he wanted.

Despite the canvas’s bulk and weight, Grady caught it up and ran back to the fire, which had grown significantly in size as it caught on to the old, dry wood. He unraveled the canvas and tossed it on top of the blaze…

And with a whoosh, it settled into place, smothering the flames. Panting, Grady waited, but all was still. The fire was out, smoke filtering out through wrinkles in the heavy, thick canvas, and he had reason—not for the first time in his life—to be thankful he’d been introduced to Harry Houdini at the beginning of the Great War.

Otherwise, Grady would certainly be on his way to a too-early grave.

EIGHT

~ Brawl in the Powder Room ~

As it was a Friday night,
The Silver Chalice was packed with patrons. Macey could hear the sounds of revelry even from the street level, where a chalice-shaped newel topped the wrought iron gate that enclosed the stairwell leading from the sidewalk down to the entrance. That decoration was the only indication of the pub’s location, and one had to know it existed in order to look for it.

A bar owned and operated by an undead had no need of windows. It was also tucked down beneath the street for privacy and security, its entryway a dark, seedy-looking area surrounded by a no-nonsense wrought iron enclosure.

Macey pounded down the dark, narrow stairway in her clunky-heeled shoes. Noise and light spilled from the ajar door, and a bulky shadow stood, arms folded, in the underground alcove next to it. He was smoking a cigarette and spewed out a long stream of smoke as he eyed her.

She ignored the man and pushed open the door. Immediately, her attention went to the bar counter, where the tawny-haired Sebastian Vioget stood. He was a study in gold, honey, and bronze, from the tips of his thick, tousled hair to the warm glow of his still sun-kissed skin, to the topaz of his eyes. One of the most angelic-looking and handsome men Macey had ever seen—and he was an undead vampire.

Sebastian was pouring a row of drinks, his white shirt open at the throat and sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Amber-colored liquid—highly illegal, of course, and knowing Sebastian, most likely straight from France—splashed into the shot glasses. He never had to worry about The Silver Chalice being raided by the fuzz, for all he’d have to do was give the cops a good, long look in the eyes and they’d be putty in his hands.

Macey took a step over the threshold. The door swung shut behind, and the noise and smells of the pub surrounded her: loud conversation, laughter and whistles, music from a piano, and the scents of smoke, alcohol, popcorn, and peanuts.

Sebastian stopped suddenly, frozen in his movements, then fairly spun around toward her. Their eyes met across the room, over the heads of his patrons sitting at scarred, round tables and along the broad, glossy-topped bar.

Macey felt the weight and power of his tiger-eye gaze from where she’d paused at the entrance. His eyes flashed gold, then became orange and red and hot. The tug was so strong, the sensation so sudden and intense, she felt as if she’d been dropped into a murky pond of warm water: everything around her slowed and became muted…lights, color, sound… She was trapped; she was falling. She was flushed and loose and—

“Well, look who the cat dragged in.” The tense words were accompanied by a tall, slender figure who stepped in front of Macey, interrupting the powerful thrall that had settled quite over her so unexpectedly.

She shook her head, heart thudding. How had that happened?
What
had happened? She blinked hard, and the world settled a little more.

“Temple,” Macey said, looking up at the elegant woman who’d positioned herself between her and Sebastian.

“I’d ask where the hell you’ve been for five months,” said the woman, whose dark, almond-shaped eyes scored over Macey with concern and some ire, “but we can catch up later.” And then she relaxed a little. “That’s not your blood.”

For the first time, Macey realized how she must appear—and that, in turn, made her understand why Sebastian had reacted the way he had. Maybe. There was blood all over the side of her neck and throat from Flora’s victim, which she’d slung over her shoulder. She shivered a little, for the dark intensity in his gaze had made even her—an experienced Venator, a friend and colleague of his—feel lost and out of control.

Sebastian was just as powerful, it seemed, as Nicholas Iscariot. Perhaps more so, for he wore the
vis bulla
—and had power from both evil and the divine.

“Even so,” Temple said, her slender, dark fingers tight around Macey’s arm, “let’s get you cleaned up.”

Macey still felt a little out of sorts as she went with the other woman to wash up in a private powder room.

“What happened back there?” she was compelled to ask as her companion handed over a wet cloth.

Temple met her eyes in the mirror. “You walked in smelling of fresh blood.”

Macey shook her head as she scrubbed at the blood, which had begun to dry in places and was sticky in others. It stained her clothing, and between that and the undead ash caught up inside the beading and lace, this outfit was definitely going in the trash. “That seemed an awfully strong reaction for someone who’s managed not to feed for more than a hundred years. Surely Sebastian doesn’t react that way every time he encounters fresh blood on a human.” She knew he kept a stash of fresh cow’s blood procured from the stockyards for his sustenance.

“Geez, sister, you don’t get it, do you? I said
you
walked in covered with fresh blood. It ain’t anyone else would have that affect on Sebastian Vioget but you, Macey Gardella Denton.”

She felt the blood drain from her face, then whoosh back up again, hot and fiery. “Oh.”

Temple didn’t seem angry as much as intent on making Macey understand. “You are the spitting image of Victoria Gardella, but with the eyes of Giulia Pesaro—a perfect combination of the two women he loved. The two women he’s sacrificed everything for—including his soul. It was because of them he allowed himself to be turned undead.”

Now she felt cold and unsteady. Nauseated. Chas had said something similar to her once…
I warn you—don’t allow Vioget to see you bloody like that. He’d be on you in a heartbeat. The blood, and the fact that you’re the spitting image of your great-great-grandmother
.

“Right,” Macey managed to say around the lump in her throat. The problem was, the heat in Sebastian’s eyes hadn’t been as frightening as it had been alluring. She still tingled a little, still felt the titillation of need…

Or maybe it was simply because she’d been lonely, separated, and angry for months. Because she’d finally learned what it truly meant to be a Venator: no attachments.

An image of Grady, his expression shocked and repulsed as it had been earlier today, floated in her mind. Macey ruthlessly pushed it away.

Temple thrust a wad of clothing at her. “Here. It’s probably a little long for you and’ll be tight over the tits, but it’s better than what you’re wearing. Smells like vampire and blood. Which means you must have a story, now that you’ve decided to grace us with your presence again.”

Before Macey could reply, Temple continued, “About Sebastian…look, sister, I’m worried about him. And you know me—I don’t worry too much about anyone. But lately, Sebastian’s been—”

The door opened. “He’s a bloody damned mess—no pun intended.”

“Lordy, Chas,” Temple snapped, partly in surprise, partly in irritation. “Macey’s in her altogethers and here you are, busting in for a peek.”

“Though it wasn’t my intent to peek,” he said, crowding into the small chamber with them both and bringing the scents of smoke, undead ash, and damp wool, “one can’t be looking a gift horse in the mouth—or so they say.”

Macey, whose cheeks had flushed hot yet again, had been in the act of finding the head and armholes of the new frock Temple had given her, and stood there in no more than her side-lacing brassiere, which covered her from breast to thigh, and briefs.

She spun around with a huff, partly to hide her cheeks as much as the rest of her, and scrabbled through the flimsy material of the dress to find the opening. “Go away, Chas.”

“Not a chance. You and I have some talking to do, lulu.”

She yanked the frock over her head and, locating the holes for her arms, turned back as the fabric fluttered down over her torso. It was tight around the bust, and would have been tighter if she hadn’t been wearing the side-lacer, which flattened her a little.

“Thanks, Temple,” she said, turning back and ignoring the new arrival. “I didn’t think about there being blood on me. I’ll be more careful next time.” Surprisingly, the pretty blue flower was still attached to her hair, out of place but still clinging to a few strands. She leaned toward the mirror to adjust it.

“That assumes there will be a next time,” Chas said. “Temple, you’d best go see to Vioget.” He gestured to the door.

The woman glowered at him. She was as tall as Chas, and her café-au-lait arms and legs were slender but shaped with smooth, lean muscles—unlike Flora’s, whose freckled white limbs were merely thin and gangly…yet that much more powerful. Temple appeared ready to argue, but there must have been something in Chas’s expression that caused her to fold, for though she gave him a sharp, displeased look, she reached for the doorknob.

“Better me than you, I suppose,” Temple muttered, and left in a swish of understated fury.

Macey took a step to follow her, but Chas moved neatly to block the way. “Why in such a hurry to escape? Are you afraid I’m going to want to finish our little scrap in the coatroom? You seemed raring to pummel me before.” His eyes lit with danger and challenge.

She gritted her teeth. “What do you want, Chas?”

“We didn’t finish our conversation.”

“I don’t know what more there is to tell you. I am committed to working with Al Capone, and—”

“Yet here you are, somehow having slipped the noose—so to speak—so very easily after claiming your inability to do so for five bloody months. One can only assume you misjudged the ease with which you could escape Capone’s influence.”

Grady’s face wavered in her mind, followed by the threatening, determined countenance of Al Capone. She might be smarter than he was, but he had Tommy guns and goons and contacts everywhere.

“I have to go back. I can’t stay.”

“Jesus, Macey, are you a Venator or are you a bloody damned
girl
? Don’t tell me you’re afraid of Al Capone, Venator or not!”

“It’s not me I’m afraid for, you jackass!” Macey was so furious, tears stung her eyes—which made her even more angry.

“Well it’s sure as hell not me or Vioget you’re protecting, so who the—
oh
. Jesus
Christ
. The Irish bastard, is it? You went and fell for the damned mick, didn’t you? Jesus, Macey! And as a result, Capone’s got his own little Venator bitch all decked out and collared up, ready to do whatever he says.”

Red tinged her vision and Macey grabbed him by the front of his coat. She whipped him to the side, slamming his broad-shouldered body into the corner as hard as she could. He crashed against the wooden wall, and it splintered a little beneath the force, but she was already shoving open the door.

She didn’t get a toe over the threshold when Chas yanked her back, dragging the door closed behind her in one breathless movement.

“We aren’t finished,” he panted as he pinned her against the wall, his fingers angling just beneath her throat and holding her there with a wide, flat hand. Her heart pounded against his palm.

“Take your hands off me,” she snapped. She had no fear of him—it was pure anger that fueled her. Anger, and something beneath her skin that was just fighting to be set free. Something that sizzled and tingled and burned.

“Only one hand is on you,” he taunted, showing her the other that was free. He swung neatly aside when her knee jacked up, grinning when she missed—but the smile faltered when she hooked her foot around his knee and yanked, thanks to a neat move Temple had shown her months ago. He didn’t fall, but she jolted him off balance and they tumbled into each other, crashing into the wall.

She spun away, pulling loose from his grip, and bolted to her feet. She stood there, panting, hands on her hips. “Don’t touch me again.”

His smile taunted her. “I told you before—the life of a Venator is lonely.” He was out of breath enough to make Macey feel as if she’d won that round at least. “You can’t be with the Irish bloke, Macey. You know you can’t expose him to that sort of threat—whether it comes from Iscariot and his ilk, or that bloody Capone. You’re on your own, lulu.”

NINE

~ Wherein Sebastian Vioget Fails to be Surprised ~

It took Sebastian longer than
it should have for his fangs to retract and his pulse to settle back into place. The sight of Macey—bloody and disheveled, eyes bright and determined, lips full and lush and beckoning, her scent carrying to him all the way across the room—standing there had tipped him into a vortex of need and desire.

He had to curl his fingers into the edge of the bar counter to keep from launching himself over it…to her. It wasn’t because he hadn’t seen her for months. It was simply because she was there.

Ready for him.

Damn it.
No.
Never that.
God help me.
Sebastian broke out in a cold sweat at the thought.

But the dreams about her had been taunting him for weeks now…and here she was, in the flesh. Returned at last.

No.

Thankfully, Temple realized what was happening and she broke the connection in her understated but effective manner. He owed her one.

Chas Woodmore…not so much. He’d been sitting at the end of the bar counter, having just arrived from somewhere and in a particularly foul mood—even for Woodmore—when Macey walked in.