Roaring Midnight

by Colleen Gleason

Chapter FOUR

  ~ The Grim Reality of Day ~

  Macey didn't expect to sleep. But she must have done so, for all at once, she opened her eyes and found bold, hot sun streaming through the window.

  The events of the night before were uppermost in her mind, and she realized she was still holding the stake. As she looked down at it, rolling it in her fingers, a chill washed over her. I killed someone with this.

  I took a life.

  Macey squeezed her eyes closed and tried to block the memories of the attack, of the pinkish eyes and grasping hands, the pain. . . the desperation as she lashed out. When she opened them, once again her attention fell on the stake. She saw for the first time that there was no blood on the jagged end.

  She'd driven it into flesh, and there was no blood? A deep, violent shiver took her by surprise. As if it were happening again, she remembered the feeling: shoving that slender wooden pike down through clothing, into skin and muscle and organ. There'd been a brief resistance at first, and then, with a little pop! the point slid down deep with sickening ease.

  It was like stabbing butter. Macey swallowed hard and looked at the stake again. Clean.

  Something shiny drew her attention to the window. The rosary, its holy beads glinting in the light, was still arranged carefully on the windowsill. Whether it had worked for the rest of the waning night as a protective barrier, she'd never know, but Macey decided it was staying there for the foreseeable future. If there was any truth to the stories in The Venators, holy objects would repel the undead.

  The nagging ache on the side of her neck had Macey rising from the bed on shaky legs. She tottered to the mirror and examined the image reflected there. Her curly jet-black hair was a wild, tousled mop with its blunt ends brushing her chin, covering her ears, and leaving her long, slender neck bare and exposed. Crusty red rivulets curved over the shape of her throat and down over her chest, and she closed her eyes for a moment, grateful it had mostly stopped bleeding.

  Didn't people die from vampire bites? Her eyes opened then, wide and large in a pale face as she stared at herself. Zst7Tr

  "No," she told the reflection firmly. "There are no such things as vampires. " Then her shoulders sagged. "Except the one I killed last night. " She still couldn't believe it.

  It was impossible.

  But it had happened. She had four puncture marks in her neck and an ash-tinged apartment to prove it. And as if that wasn't enough, the musty, foul smell still lingered, leaving her to wonder if it would ever go away.

  Someone rapped loudly at the door of her apartment. Macey whirled, heart pounding. Then she drew in a deep breath. A vampire wasn't going to be knocking on the door of her apartment. Especially in the light of day.

  "Macey? Are you in there?" The knocking became more insistent and the vocal tones sharper. "I'm sure I heard you moving around in there. Macey?"

  Her landlady, Mrs. Gutchinson, was not only stubborn, but filled with a sense of entitlement in regards to knowing the comings, goings, and habits of her tenants. "I'm coming, Mrs. G. " She yanked on an old flannel robe, wrapping the collar high around her neck so as to hide the vampire wounds.

  Holding the robe tightly in place, she opened the door to find her landlady peering at her from behind thick glasses. All sharp angles and gangly limbs, Mrs. G stood on the landing of the stairs looking like a near-sighted scarecrow wearing a housedress. "There you are. " She arranged herself so as to see behind her tenant and into the one-room apartment, her large-knuckled hand grasping the edge of the doorway.

  Macey knew from experience if she moved even a smidge to one side of the entrance or the other, despite her arthritic hip, Mrs. Gutchinson would breeze right into the room faster than a breath of fresh air.

  "Where else would I be on a Saturday morning, Mrs. G?" She hoped the odor of exploded vampire flesh wasn't noticeable. Not that the old woman would recognize it, but the last thing she needed was her landlady thinking anything unusual was going on in her apartment.

  "I didn't see you last night," Mrs. Gutchinson replied with a note of accusation. "When they came and evacuated us. "

  "Evacuated you?" Macey blinked.

  "Yes. Overnight. "

  Well, that explained why no one had come to investigate her screams and the sounds of struggle. "What happened?"

  "A man came through on as about ten o'clock last night and said as how we all had to vacate the building for the night. He claimed it was a gas main leak, but I'm sure he was lying. I think it was just a cover-up for a gangster shoot-out. " Mrs. G leaned closer-either for confidentiality purposes, or to get a better look inside the apartment.

  Macey was certain it was the latter. The chill at the back sly, and she tensed a little when her landlady sniffed experimentally. Shifting to block the doorway as much as possible, she replied, "A gas main leak?"

  "That's what he said. Once I let him in, he even posted notices on the doors of each apartment. Said we could return after six o'clock in the morning. Now how would they know the leak would be fixed by then?"

  Macey didn't find it necessary to mention there'd been no notice on her door. A little shiver ran down her spine.

  But Mrs. Gutchinson didn't seem to notice. She waved her large-knuckled hand in Macey's face. "As clean as the nose on my face, it warn't no gas main leak. I didn't smell it, and my nose always knows. I've suspected that man across the street is involved in something illegal since the moment I set eyes on him, and I wager the agents were coming in to arrest him. They didn't want anyone to get caught in the crossfire. " The fact that her eyes sparkled behind their heavy glasses suggested she wouldn't have minded being caught in the crossfire at all.

  "I see. Well, thank you for the information. I'm sure we'll find out soon enough whether your suspicions are correct. Have a nice day, Mrs. G. " She started to close the door and found it blocked by a well-placed black-shoed toe.

  She should have known it wouldn't be that easy.

  "Late night, I see," Mrs. G said, sniffing as she looked pointedly at her tenant's robe. Macey gripped the collar to hold it high and in place. "Now, you don't have a young man in there, do you, Macey Denton? You know I don't allow those sorts of goings-on here. My Fred would roll over in his grave if he thought there was fornication happening under the roof of his parents' old house!"

  "No, Mrs. G, of course I don't have a young man in here. " Macey made her expression as innocent as possible.

  "It's one thing to go dancing at those music clubs," her landlady barreled on, "or joyriding in those new-fangled closed cars-but drinking spirits and indulging in immoral practices is not to be tolerated. " She pointed a finger at Macey. "Do I make myself clear?"

  "Yes, ma'am, of course. Thank you so much for checking on me, Mrs. Gutchinson. " She began to ease the door closed. Then she remembered. "Oh, could I possibly use your telephone? Flora and I-" She stopped. "There was a fire at the club last night and I lost Flora in the ruckus. Could I call her just to make sure she's gotten home all right? You can add the cost to my rent. "

  To her surprise, Mrs. G agreed without any further questions or demands. Or maybe the old bat thought she'd find out more information about her tenant by eavesdropping on the phone conversation.

  But if that was her plan, it didn't work out. Macey called the main number of Flora's boarding house, and the landlady answered. "Flora? I ain't seen her since yesterday. "

  Macey's stomach dropped. "Truly? There was a-" She glanced over her shoulder and saw Mrs. G carefully adjusting the figurines in her china cabinet-within close earshot. "There was a fire and we lost each other. "

  "She mighta come home. She mighta not. She don't always check in with me. But she ain't here now. "

  That didn't really mean anything, as Macey well knew. Mrs. G might be nosey and directive, but Flora's landlady was mean, and a drunkard who made her own hooch in a basement distillery and hardly remembered what she did or said from one day to th
e next. Flora did her best to avoid the woman whenever possible. "Would you have her call me or send word if you see her?"

  "Call you? On my phone? Why, I'm-"

  Macey listened to her rant for a few seconds, then hung up the phone. She was still feeling jittery and nervous, but told herself not to worry-at least not yet. Surely if something had happened to Flora, Jimmy would know. He was the next of kin-at least, here in Chicago. He would have come to tell Macey. Maybe Flora was really out looking for a job, like she said she would do today. Or maybe she was just not answering the door to her despised landlady. Macey sighed, trying not to be too concerned. Flora needed more than a job. She needed to move somewhere nicer, with a decent landlady.

  "Thanks Mrs. G. I've got to get back upstairs. I was just getting ready to wash up because I have to go into the library today. Dr. Morgan scheduled me overtime," she lied.

  The landlady sniffed, but apparently an obligation at her place of employment was a good enough excuse for Macey to leave without further interrogation. "Very well, then. I'll be sure to tell you if anything else happens. "

  I'm sure you will. "Thank you so much, Mrs. G. "

  When Macey got back into her flat, she looked longingly at her bed. But sliding back into it wasn't an option. The old bat would be peering out her lace-curtained window (lace allowed for less obvious spying than calico or linen) to make certain Macey actually left for work.

  Aside from that, she couldn't stay cloistered in her apartment all day. At the very least she had to try and find out if Flora and Chelle and Dottie were safe. And she had to try and find The Silver Chalice again and speak to Monsieur Vioget. Clearly, there was some mistake about her and who she was, and until she straightened things out, she could be in danger of more terrifying and unwanted visitors.

  She just hoped there was a way to put an end to the misunderstanding quickly and permanently.

  A short time later, Macey was arranging a white crocheted cloche hat over her mess of short curls when someone knocked on her door.

  Flora!

  She turned and started. "Just a minute," she called, snatching up a white scarf that matched her hat. After arranging the scarf to hide the wounds on her neck, she swiped on a bit of pink lipstick. Like most of her generation, Mrs. G didn't approve of rouge or lipstick, but it was a light enough shade so as not to invite criticism. She hoped.

  Then Macey picked up her handbag and a light wrap and started to the door. At least if it was Mrs. G, she'd be able to make the excuse she was on her way out and didn't have time to talk.

  The knocking had ceased, and when she opened the door, Macey found not only Mrs. Gutchinson on the threshold, but another, completely unexpected visitor.

  "Do you know this man?" demanded the landlady.

  Grady was standing in front of her door.

  "I-uh. . . " Macey didn't know what to say. What are you doing here? was only going to send Mrs. Gutchinson into a tizzy.

  "Top of the morning, Miss Denton," he said smoothly, his brogue thicker than she remembered.

  He was dressed in a gray coat and vest, stylishly baggy flannel trousers, a white shirt that could use an iron, and black scuffed shoes. The same hat she'd seen on him the first day they met covered his sable hair, tipped back into a more stylish position on his head. His square chin and jaw were dusted with dark stubble, making him look a little disreputable, a little dangerous. . . and a lot attractive. "I see you're on your way out. "

  "Indeed I am," she said with as cool a tone as she could muster. Her mind was darting in a myriad of directions: he'd learned her full name and address since last night, he hadn't been thrown in jail (or killed) after the raid at The Gyro, he was acting as if they knew each other much better than they did, and he'd washed the ink off his hands.

  She wasn't certain whether to be flattered or annoyed he'd tracked her down so easily.

  "I could be giving you a lift," he said. "My automobile is parked on the street below. "

  "Do you know this gentleman?" Mrs. Gutchinson demanded again, casting irritated glares between them. She despised being uninformed. "He says he's from the Tribune. "

  Macey detected conflicting notes of suspicion and interest in her landlady's voice and decided Grady was the lesser of two evils-at least for the moment. He did, after all, have a car. "He's from the Tribune," she said, hoping it was true after all, "and he's interviewing me about a new collection we just received at the library. And he's late. I expected you thirty minutes ago," she added with a sharp look at him.

  "My apologies, Miss Denton. " His. The chill at the back sly eyes glinted with humor. "We'd best be leaving, then, so you aren't any more tardy than you already are. "

  Macey had already pulled her door shut behind her, and she quickly locked it. "Have a nice day, Mrs. G. " She started down the steps to the main floor.

  Her landlady might have said something, but Macey wasn't waiting to be accosted further, and the sound of their feet clunking down the stairs drowned out Mrs. G's voice.

  Once outside, she paused and, of necessity, waited for Grady to indicate which automobile was his. It turned out to be a dark blue Ford Model T, one of the closed models that kept the dust and weather out. It was neatly parked, gleaming in the mid-morning sun.

  She looked back and wasn't surprised to see the lace curtain twitching at Mrs. G's window. The elderly woman could certainly move quickly enough when she wanted to. Nosy thing.

  Grady opened the auto's door and Macey hesitated. She didn't really know this man. And after what had happened last night, she was more than a little apprehensive. Things were all off-kilter.

  "My uncle's a cop," Grady said, amusement tingeing his voice. "He'd be about punching my lights out if I so much as ruffled your skirt or mussed your hair. "

  She gave him an exasperated look. "Only if he knew about it. You could stash my body somewhere in an old house or freight tunnel, and no one would ever know the difference. "

  He laughed and she climbed into the car, adjusting her scarf to make sure it still hid the vampire bites. And she couldn't help but notice the admiring look he gave her stockinged legs just before he shut the door. Macey smiled to herself.

  Settling into his seat, Grady pushed the electric starter in the floor and the car rumbled alive. "Thank Pete we're not having to crank these lousy things anymore. " Then, one wrist resting casually on the steering wheel, he turned to look at her. "Where are we going?"

  "Harper Library at the university. " Her voice was clipped, for she was irritated he'd still given no explanation for his appearance-and didn't seem to have any intention of doing so. And here she was, following his lead with no questions asked. Macey's irritation turned inward. She'd played right into his plans. . . whatever they were.

  Nevertheless, she waited until he started driving before asking, "And. . . ?"

  He stopped at an intersection and turned to look at her. "And. . . you're wanting to know why I'm about showing up on your doorstep today. "

  "The thought never occurred to me. Why, it happens nearly every day that a man I don't even know, and who doesn't even know my name, tracks down my home and appears there, offering to give me a ride somewhere he doesn't even know where IQ.

  Grady chuckled and accelerated the automobile. "I didn't figure you'd be wanting to stand and discuss all this while your hatchet-eyed landlady observed from her window. "

  "Hatchet-eyed?"

  He shrugged. "I'm a writer. Hazard of the trade. " The remnants of his smile faded, and he took his eyes off the road just long enough to glance at her. "I was wanting to make certain you'd gotten home all right last night. That was an awful. . . thing that happened, and I lost track of you in the melee. "

  "But you didn't know my name," she said, mollified by his confession. Although he'd figured out where she lived and that she didn't have a boyfriend. . .

  "What do you think took me so long? I would have been here sooner if I h
ad. It helps I have a cop for an uncle, and I have access to all sorts of information. And there aren't very many young women named Macey in Chicago. "

  Which was probably why someone had apparently mistaken her for a different Macey. Macey Gardella.

  "How did you know I lived near Hyde Park? And that math isn't my thing? And what makes you think I don't have a boyfriend?"

  He grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that charming way. "I saw you get on the trolley toward Hyde Park that day we met on the street. Figured you had to be going home at that time of day. And when you went to pay for your drink at The Gyro, you had to calculate the change. Twice. As for the boyfriend. . . well," he said, glancing toward her, "I was just hoping it was true. "

  Macey's cheeks were pleasantly warm. "I see. "

  Still smiling, he turned down a side street and began to maneuver into a parking place.

  "This isn't the library. " She frowned at him.

  "I thought since I was so-called 'late' coming to pick you up I owed you at least a cup of coffee," he said. "Maybe even a sandwich?"

  "I'll bite. We can do the interview over coffee and a sandwich. Yes, it's the least you can do-write a story about the library for the Tribune. We're trying to renovate the book processing rooms and could use some publicity for our charity dinner next week. "

  Part of the reason she accepted his invitation-if it could even be considered an invitation-was because she was putting off deciding whether she should try to find The Silver Chalice again. But the memory of those glowing red eyes and long, lethal fangs left her no choice. The thought reminded her to adjust the scarf as she waited for Grady to open the car door.

  Once again, he gave her legs a long look as she climbed out. "Maybe you'd like to get a photographer here to take a shot," she said as he closed the door.

  "For the interview?" He looked at her.

  "No," she said. "Of my legs. You seem fascinated by them. A photo would last longer, you know. "

  His confusion disappeared into a smirk. "And then I could hang it in my office. An excellent suggestion. " When she huffed, he added, "You should be flattered, lass. You've got gams worth taking a second look. Not to mention other assets. " His voice dropped a little at the last bit, and his smile turned warmer.

  More flustered than she cared to admit, Macey declined to respond as they walked into the small diner. Earlier, she hadn't been certain she'd be interested in food any time soon, but now she smelled something good to eat and realized how empty her stomach was. Adjusting her scarf, she nodded when Grady suggested a table in the corner by a window.

  Their attention was taken up by perusing the handwritten menu on a chalkboard and ordering from the waitress. But once that was accomplished, Macey settled in her seat, looked at Grady, who was flipping through his notebook, and contemplated her situation. Strange and unsettling-for here she was, sitting in a cafe with a mysterious man who'd tracked down her identity and home, and with whom she'd had an absurd conversation about vampires. . . the morning after she'd been attacked by one.

  Could it be coincidence?

  Grady removed his hat, and she couldn't help but notice how thick and rich his hair looked-like swirls of chocolate-colored velvet. He had brilliant blue eyes that, in the short time she'd known him, had ranged from light and twinkling with humor to sharp and serious, as dark blue as Lake Michigan on a wintry day.

  He looked up at that moment, and his eyes were currently colored in the serious, midnight blue tones. "Miss Denton-"

  "What happened to 'Macey?'" she asked, trying to diffuse the sudden tension that had settled over her shoulders. "Why so formal?" She hoped her grin came across as breezy as she intended. She wasn't particularly adept at flirting.

  "Macey, then. " The seriousness didn't ease from his gaze. "Do you know what happened last night?"

  She opened her mouth to ask what he meant, then stopped. She didn't want him to think of her as fairy-headed, because she knew damn well what he meant. Her palms had suddenly become damp. She wanted to talk to someone about what happened in her flat-she needed to tell someone. Someone who'd believe her.

  But. . . he'd probably think she was loony.

  "At The Gyro? There was a raid. " She chose her words carefully.

  He started to respond, but the waitress approached and set two cups of coffee in front of them and so he waited. When she walked away, he spooned a single scoop of sugar into his cup and stirred slowly, looking down as if fascinated by the vortex the swirling coffee made. "A raid? Is that all you think it was?"

  Macey poured a large dollop of cream into her drink and used three spot.

  He dropped his spoon onto the saucer with an impatient clatter. He leaned across the table, his face intense as he said in a low voice, "Macey, there were vampires there. " He speared her with his eyes. Her heart thumped.

  "I. . . know. " The words came out in a whisper as she looked straight at him.

  Grady settled back in his seat, relief evident in the way his shoulders sagged. He looked at her, that deathly serious expression still there. . . but now it was tinged with satisfaction. "Thank you. "

  She accepted and understood his gratitude for her acknowledgment. But she was still so confused and overwhelmed by everything that had happened, she wasn't certain what to say, or even where to begin. As she contemplated how to respond, she noticed a man being seated nearby.

  His smooth, spare movements as he made his way between tables in the wake of the waitress caught Macey's attention. Something about him seemed familiar. She caught just a glimpse of his face, but it was obscured by a low-riding fedora, and he was angled away from her.

  "About last night. . . how did you know? Did you see a. . . vampire?" Her voice dropped low.

  "I wasn't certain until I saw the-one of the victims. "

  Macey stilled. Her body went numb. Oh, God, yes, there had been victims. An ugly chill crawled up her spine and clamped around her insides. "Oh God," she whispered as her eyes grew wide. "Victims? How many? Do you know their names? Flora! I've got to get to the-to the-morgue or wherever-"

  She bolted from her chair, drawing the attention of everyone in the diner. . . except, noticeably, the man who'd caught her attention earlier. His back to them, he continued to peruse his newspaper as if he hadn't a care in the world.

  "Macey. " Grady grabbed her arm as she spun blindly toward the door.

  She paused, her blind fear and capriciousness ebbing into practicality. Dashing out of the diner in an area of the city she didn't know wasn't going to help answer her question. She'd get Grady to take her to Flora's, or to the morgue, or wherever. She drew in a deep breath and returned to the table.

  "My best friend. " She sank into her seat, holding Grady's gaze desperately, as if he'd have the answer. "Flora. "

  The other diners were still watching openly, as if ready to spring to her assistance if it was her companion who'd caused her to bolt. . . or, perhaps more likely, they were merely interested in the entertainment of a potential lovers' quarrel.

  "There were three female victims. " His expression was serious and compassionate.

  Her heart in her throat, Macey tried to keep her thoughts calm. "Did you see any of them? Were any of them identified? Flora McGillicut has bright red hair. We called her Carrot Head when we were younger. "

  His concern eased. "I don't know their names, but none of the three were redheads," he told her, just as the waitress appeared with two bowls of soup and a basket of crusty bread.

  Macey exhaled, weak with relief. Yet, as she looked down at the potato chowder, her appetite faded. Three victims from the vampire raid last night. Plus the attack on her. She could have been a fourth casualty. There could be even more. A chill snaked up her spine, and she looked at Grady with sudden realization. "Jennie Fallon. "

  He was already three bites into his soup-which, judging by the amount of steam curling from the bowl, had to be scaldin
g-but he glanced up. His sharp nod was all the affirmation she needed.

  Jennie Fallon. Three from last night. How many more victims? And what could be done to stop there from being more? If there really were vampires. . . and she had no choice but to accept there were. . . they couldn't be killed with Tommy guns or stopped by being put in jail. She suspected the likes of the undead didn't give two shingles about the laws of mortals. And would a jail cell even hold them? From what she'd read and experienced first-hand, the creatures were unnaturally fast and strong.

  For the first time, Macey felt truly afraid. Gangsters were one thing-for unless you accidentally happened to be caught in a crossfire or tried to encroach on their territory by selling booze or setting up a gambling house, they tended to keep their violent tendencies among themselves and rival gangs.

  But vampires. . . they were a different story. They fed on mortals. According to The Venators, they lived only to kill.

  Macey glanced down and realized her soup was still sitting untouched in front of her. She might as well eat. It smelled good, and she was hungry-and besides, there wasn't anything she could do about the situation.

  Or was there? A shiver zipped up her spine.

  "What is it?" Grady asked, pausing with a crust of bread half-lowered into his chowder. "Are you cold?"

  Macey hesitated only a minute before asking, "Have you heard of The Silver Chalice?"

  His eyes narrowed as he shook his head. "What is it? Some sort of vampire artifact?"

  "Shhh. " Macey glanced around the room. "It's a. . . a bar or a dance hall. I think," she added quickly. "I've never been there. " Literally, that was true: she'd been outside the establishment, but hadnZd along't set foot in it.

  "I've never heard of any place called The Silver Chalice. But it would be easy to find out. Why?" His eyes narrowed, focusing on her.

  "I thought. . . I thought I heard someone say something about The Silver Chalice last night. During the raid. "

  "You are a terrible liar, Macey Denton," Grady said flatly. "But regardless, I can find out if there's such a place in the city. "

  She looked at him primly. "Thank you. "

  "And if you're not going to eat that, I will. " Grady had already finished his own soup and clearly had designs on hers.

  "I'll eat it. "

  He looked disappointed, but placated himself with another piece of crusty bread and cannot fault.