Roaring Shadows: Macey Book 2 (The Gardella Vampire Hunters 8) (4 page)

Pocketbook in hand, Macey ignored the elevator and bounded down ten flights of stairs in her low-heeled Mary Janes. It was the easiest way to get out of the Lexington unnoticed by any of Al’s goons—for they tended to try and tail her on foot or in their sleek black autos. The last time she’d attempted this sort of escape, they’d been behind her all the way to the library and back. Today, she didn’t care whether they did or not.

The sunny April afternoon was mild, filled with Chicagoans enjoying the advent of spring. Macey didn’t have a destination in mind; she just wanted fresh air, and the opportunity to clear her mind after being cooped up in Big Al’s presence for months.

She managed to dodge notice of the guard at the secret back entrance because he was flirting with one of the other gals. Well, necking with her was a more accurate term. Macey slipped past them quickly, and was on the busy street in a flash.

She walked aimlessly, briskly, and without a plan, and after a while, she was surprised to discover her path had brought her to a familiar building. St. Patrick’s was a small, unassuming church, one of many in the city named after the Irish saint, and although Macey wasn’t Catholic, she had been inside several times.

Something had drawn her there in the past, just as something had brought her here now.

Despite her previously steady stride, now her paces were more hesitant as she climbed the steps to the entrance. The heavy wooden door opened silently, and Macey slipped into the dim worship space.

Silent. Still. Empty…except for a hunched figure a few rows from the altar, wrapped in a dark shawl, hands folded in prayer.

Candles flickered from the alcoves on either side of the double columns of pews, surrounding statues of the saints. More candles burned on the dais. Sunlight filtered through the large stained glass window above the altar, splashing colorful shards of light over the rows of benches. Because it was Easter, pots of lilies and vases of other spring flowers were arranged throughout the space, filling it with their sweet, fresh scents.

Macey could hear her own heartbeat as she made her way down the center aisle, wondering why she’d come here of all places.

Welcome
.

No one was there, but she
heard
the greeting deep inside her. It had been like this before, when she came here after learning about her Venator heritage. When she didn’t believe she could be a vampire hunter, when she disbelieved the tale Sebastian Vioget had told her, when she was certain there had been a mistake, that she was
not
the daughter of a famed vampire slayer.

Help me.
She thought those words now, not certain why or to whom she was speaking…but if her adversaries were half-demons spawned by the Devil, then being in a holy place made sense. She drew her strength from the blessed silver amulet that pierced her skin, the
vis bulla
forged from metal in the Holy Land.

Macey sat in one of the pews halfway back, on the side opposite the other occupant of the church, and closed her eyes.

What am I doing?

Silence. But it was a strangely peaceful silence, not one filled with expectation, nor even curiosity. Just…stillness. Peace.

Yes, it was peace—for the first time since Al Capone drew her into his web. For the first time since her friend Chelle had been mutilated by Nicholas Iscariot, and since her best pal Flora had been turned undead.

For the first time since Macey realized what it truly meant to be a Venator—the loneliness, the sacrifices, the life of violence—she felt a semblance of peace.

Something stirred the air. She heard the rustle of clothing, felt the warmth of a presence.

Macey’s eyes flew open. “You,” she whispered, looking at the elderly woman. A quick glance toward the front told her this had been the same figure kneeling in prayer only moments earlier.

“You’ve returned,” said the woman. She was so old, Macey couldn’t even guess her age. Surely she was at least ninety. Maybe even a hundred. Her face and her body bespoke of age and fragility. Her skin, papery thin and crisscrossed with an infinite number of wrinkles, appeared soft and translucent. A hint of sparse white curls framed her face, peeking from behind the dark shawl she’d drawn over her head and shoulders.

But it was her eyes that drew Macey: her dark, fathomless eyes that glinted with intelligence and comprehension and
life
. They were familiar to her, as if she knew the person living behind them…but of course she didn’t know this woman. She had only met her twice.

“I…I don’t know why I’m here.” Macey stumbled, somehow compelled to speak. “I just…needed to get away.”

“You may always find strength and sanctuary here.” The woman’s eyes narrowed on her. “And do you still have the rosary? The one I gave you?”

Macey stilled. She hadn’t thought about it for months. Not that it mattered to her, not that she had any use for it—except that she had. The first night a vampire had attacked her, she had used it. After fumbling through her first slaying of an undead, she’d arranged the string of beads on her windowsill in hopes it would keep any other vampires from attacking her.

“I don’t know,” she stammered. “I think…I left it…at home.” She closed her eyes, suddenly assailed by the memory of the last time she’d been home—home being her flat in Mrs. Gutchinson’s house.

Mrs. Gutchinson.

Tears threatened and nausea roiled in her belly. Macey blinked rapidly to stave off her emotions. Her elderly landlady hadn’t deserved what the vampires had done to her. No one deserved to be tortured and mutilated in that way, especially a weak and helpless old woman.

“That’s why you must do what you do,” said her companion. As if she read her mind.

Macey blinked, staring at her. “How do you know—what do you mean?”

A sad, very sad, smile curved the woman’s thin lips, temporarily smoothing some of the deep wrinkles around her mouth. “Keep the rosary near. You will be in need of it.” She covered Macey’s hand with her soft, slender one. Instead of being cold, as elderly hands often were, it was warm, and her touch sent a gentle, comforting jolt through the younger set of fingers.

Then the old woman pulled to her feet, slowly and with great care. Before she turned away, she looked at Macey—her eyes the same height as hers, though she stood and Macey sat. “Be safe and be strong. There are many who wait for you to act.”

With those cryptic words, the woman left her, shuffling slowly and steadily down the row toward the main aisle.

Macey opened her mouth to ask more—at least the woman’s name—but then something changed her mind.

It’s time to go back
.

Yes, it was time to return—to go back to her flat. To face her old life once more.

Perhaps then she could figure out a way to dislodge Al Capone from her world.

Macey climbed out of the cab and stood in front of Mrs. Gutchinson’s brick boarding house. The blue paint trim was peeling, but all of the shutters were intact. None of the windows were broken, and the flower garden along the front was just beginning to sprout springtime green. A
For Sale
sign had been halfheartedly affixed to the inside of one window.

Her knees trembled and her insides churned like an old-fashioned butter maker. The last time she’d been here, Grady was with her. And horror waited inside.

She’d just come from the morgue, where she’d identified the torn and tortured body of one of her best friends. Chelle had been brutalized beyond belief at the hands of Nicholas Iscariot—a warning to Macey from the malevolent vampire.

That day, beneath the overcoat she’d borrowed from Chas, Macey’s clothing was in tatters from the onslaught of Iscariot and his knife. She’d only escaped because of his help, a fact that he drove home repeatedly—and unnecessarily. She’d learned her lesson…but it was too late to help Mrs. Gutchinson.

Now, steeling herself, Macey strode boldly up the walkway to her old apartment, wondering who—if anyone—would answer the door to her knock.

“Hey! Who’re you?”

The peremptory voice startled her, and, mortified at her unsteady nerves—what the hell kind of vampire hunter was she anyway?—Macey turned to see a tall, skinny man of fifty or so standing at the fence that separated the two yards. He had an Adam’s apple the size of a plum. Beneath a Cubs baseball cap, his face was in dire need of a shave. His shirt hadn’t seen an iron in some time, but at least he was clean. And he had good teeth, except for them being tobacco-stained.

“I’m…I live here,” she said. “But I’ve been away for a while. I just got back.”

“Then ya don’t know about it all, then? She was murdered in there, back last fall, and ain’t nobody been in there since. That Gutchinson lady who owned it. Place’s empty as a graveyard.” He looked away, and Macey saw a brown stream of saliva shoot from his mouth before he turned back. “Who wants to live in a house where the lady got cut up into shreds? Just like that man what had all those girls in his house over on the South Side, kep’em there, cut ’em all up—”

“I’ve just got to get some things,” Macey said, leaving him rambling on as she hurried toward the front door.

Well, that answered at least one of her questions. No one was here to stop her from going in.

The door was locked, but she had her key and it still fit. She ducked inside and closed the door behind her, then stilled. It was silent as a graveyard, just as the neighbor had promised.

The frayed carpet smothered her footsteps on the treads as she climbed the two flights to her flat. The house smelled of must and dust, and beneath it all lingered the scent of blood, the essence of death.

Or maybe it was just her imagination.

The door to her flat was locked as well, and when she turned the key and the deadbolt clunked open, Macey became aware of her suddenly clammy palms and racing pulse. Irritated with herself—she was a Venator, for pity’s sake!—she shoved open the door.

Her apartment looked just as she’d left it. The curtains at half-mast, the brightly colored rag rug flipped up at the corner. Her bureau was cluttered with bottles, feathered and flowered hair bands, and a small jewelry box—now thick with dust. A few blouses and a dress were still slung over a chair. Her closet door sagged half open, revealing a tumble of shoes on the floor. The tiny kitchenette was dusty, with a spoon and a single cup still sitting in the sink, now bone dry months later.

And there was the bed in the center of the small room, the headboard tucked against the wall and a small table next to it.

Mercifully, not only had Mrs. Gutchinson’s body been removed, but so had all of the bedding on which she’d bled her life away, along with the horrible ropes that had bound her frail wrists and ankles to the bed posts. Macey swallowed hard, forcing herself to look at the mattress—which had been covered by a clean blanket—and remember.

This is what my life is. This is what happens to people I care for.

This is why.

A flash of anger shot through her, fury tinting her gaze red. It wasn’t bad enough that she had to fear the brutality and violence of the undead against her and those she knew…but now also one of her own. Another Venator, another who carried the same legacy in his blood, was just as much a threat to her as the half-demons she hunted.

How could this be right? How could this be fair?

How could she survive this?

Thoughts in turmoil, Macey stepped further into the room, her attention settling on the dresser and the single photo that sat on top. Half the picture was torn away, but the part that remained was the image of her mother Felicia. A disembodied arm was slung around her shoulders, and she looked right at the camera, laughing at something. She had been beautiful—and Macey had some fuzzy memories of the woman filled with life and energy, blond-haired and blue-eyed…so very different from her bookish, dark-haired, dark-eyed daughter.

Macey’s hands were steady as she picked up the frame and pried off the back, pulling away the cardboard mount to reveal the other half of the photo. She sank onto the dress-strewn chair, examining the photo with new eyes as her discarded clothing slipped down from the back of the seat.

The man known as Max Denton had been dark and devilishly handsome. In this photo, with the woman he loved, the mother of his only child, he grinned rakishly, showing white teeth and a deep-cut dimple in his clean-shaven face. With his tailored suit and informal pose, he looked more like a well-heeled swell than an infamous vampire hunter. But apparently, her father had been legendary in his vocation.

Especially after the vampires had brutally killed his wife Felicia.

Macey glanced toward the bed, her stomach cramping unpleasantly. It had been horrifying enough for her to find her nosy but harmless landlady torn to pieces…and even more terrifying to see what the vampires had done to her friend Chelle.

How much worse it must have been for Max Denton to discover his wife tortured in such a manner.

The loss had destroyed him. Driven him mad with grief and fury.

And he’d sent his eight-year-old daughter Macey away to live with a string of relatives in England, New York, and finally to a tiny town outside Chicago.

She’d never heard from him again. He’d never even bothered to write. To ask after her. To let her know he still loved her. To acknowledge her existence.

She stared down at the photo for a long time, sifting through her memories and emotions…basking in the memories of her anger, loneliness, and confusion.

He’d abandoned her. Discarded her. Ignored her.

And until now, Macey hadn’t understood. She wiped her eyes and dug for a handkerchief in her bureau drawer.

She would
never
risk someone like that. No matter how lonely she was, no matter how much it hurt her…or them. She wouldn’t be like her father.

A sound caught her attention and she turned toward the apartment door, listening. The scuttle of a mouse? Some other critter who’d taken up residence in the abandoned house?

There it was again…the faintest scuffle.

Macey rose, looking around for a weapon. Not a stake; it was broad, sunny daylight, so she didn’t expect a vampire. She wasn’t afraid of anything or anyone else, except a bullet, and even then—