Roaring Midnight (The Gardella Vampire Chronicles | Macey #1)

by Colleen Gleason

  He was looking at her differently now. In a way that made her feel prickly and nervous inside her skin. “Joking, were you? I wonder why you’d be joking about something like that.”

  Just then—and Macey was to be forever grateful for the interruption—someone called, “Grady!”

  They both turned to see a uniformed police officer approaching. It was obvious he’d been hailing the man next to her.

  Macey was delighted to have the opportunity to edge away as the policeman, who was quite a bit older, walked up. He looked at her, then at Grady, and said, “Is everything all right here? Miss? Is this man bothering you?”

  Before she could respond, Grady gave her an assessing look and said with an ironic smile, “Oh, and I’m quite certain I am.” Then he turned to the policeman, effectively dismissing any complaint she might have been moved to make. “Any news, Linwood?”

  Macey was only too happy to make her escape, sore feet notwithstanding. She didn’t look back as she started off down the sidewalk, cheeks still burning over her rash suggestion that a vampire might have attacked the young woman.

  And the fact that Grady heard it.

  Not that it mattered. Surely she’d ever see the man again, and thank goodness for that.

  As she rushed along, she continued to berate herself. That strange book had captivated her, and the story didn’t want to leave her alone. For the last two nights, she’d been having those same nightmares of being stalked and hunted by red-eyed vampires.

  And the oddest thing had happened at the library earlier today. Macey was secretary to the director of accessions (with aspirations of being head librarian herself one day), and Dr. Morgan had received a visitor early this morning.

  Although, as it turned out, the visitor hadn’t been looking for Dr. Morgan. He was a nice-looking young man, and he came into the office, folding up a very large, dripping umbrella but carrying nothing else. That in itself was unusual, because just about everyone who came into the library was either in possession of one or more books, or was carrying something in which to put one or more books. Or was at least looking for a book.

  The young man looked intently at Macey, who’d enthusiastically taken a break from typing up the twenty-third card catalogue file she’d done since eight o’clock. Typing up card catalogue files was much more tedious than one would think, as she’d quickly learned. She preferred to be walking among the labyrinthine stacks, discovering or re-shelving books and old manuscripts—or, better yet, poring through a newly acquired tome herself, practicing the classification of the title and where it would go on the shelf. And you never knew what sort of fascinating information you could find paging through a book.

  But when she looked up at the visitor, Macey’s first impression was that he might be a gangster. She wasn’t certain why she had that thought. Maybe it was the commanding way he looked around the room. Or the sense of something being off, or even dangerous about him.

  A sharp spike of nerves made Macey fumble with the pencil she’d picked up. The newcomer carried himself with confidence and boldness, and he was dressed expensively in spats and a tailored suit. A bloodred handkerchief, silky and patterned with black dots, stuck up from his breast pocket, folded in perfect, fan-like creases. She found herself looking at his silhouette beneath the fitted jacket to see if she could spot the bulge of a gun, and wondered what she would do if he pulled one out.

  And the way he looked at her was odd. It sent a gentle prickle over the back of her bare neck and across her shoulders, almost as if a chill draft brushed her skin. In fact, she felt a distinct chill lifting the hair at the back of her neck, and she wondered if he’d left the outside door open when he came in.

  “Miss Gardella?” He stepped closer to her desk. No one else was around; the rest of the department was at lunch.

  Macey looked up at him. “Pardon me?” she asked, rising while trying to hide the fact that her knees were shaking. What on earth was wrong with her? At least her voice came out calmly and steadily. “May I help you?”

  He looked at her more intently, and for a moment, Macey felt as if her insides wavered…as if her vision swung and shivered. For just an instant, she felt dizzy. “I’m looking for Miss Gardella,” he said, still focused on her.

  She shook her head, and it took great effort to pull her gaze away from his. Her heart was pounding and she felt…soupy. “I’m sorry, sir, I’m not aware of anyone by that name. If you’d like to speak to the director, Dr. Morgan, he might be able to help you. Do you know in what department she works? The university is a large place, and I’m new here.”

  The man’s brows drew together and annoyance colored his expression. His eyes flashed red for an instant, then she dismissed the thought as being due to her fanciful imagination and cloudy head. Am I coming down with something?

  “No, that won’t be necessary. I must be mistaken.” The man turned and strode out of the office before she could ask his name.

  It was only after he left that it sunk into her thoughts that he’d asked for Miss Gardella. In fact, it seemed as if he’d initially called her Miss Gardella.

  Gardella was the name of the family of vampire hunters in Mr. Starcasset’s book.

  How coincidental.

  ~*~

  The dance club called The Gyro was loud and crowded, just the way the flappers liked. Good music, a big dance floor, tables packed in together on the sides, and, if you were daring and knew the right word or phrase, entrance through a secret door behind the musicians. Not that Macey ever went through that door…at least, not so far.

  The wall behind the dais where the piano stood appeared to be an innocent panel of mirrors, but the third one was the secret door. Macey knew this because she’d seen it slide open once, and because Flora had told her.

  “Do you know the password?” Macey’d asked her friend, jiggling her foot in time to the music. The ice in their glasses of tea clinked gently on the table.

  Flora shook her head, and her tight reddish-blond curls hardly moved at all. “No, but I think Jimmy does.”

  Jimmy was Flora’s older brother, and he often accompanied the two of them when they went dancing—although he hadn’t tonight. Macey liked it when he came along because he was a deterrent to anyone who might bother them. And every day in the papers, there were stories about gangster shoot-outs, police raids, and other violence related to the so-called beer wars. Since she and Flora weren’t about to stay in like two old maids with their cats (not that either of them had any cats), it made for a more relaxing night when the massive, smashed-nosed Jimmy came with them.

  Macey suspected he probably knew more about what went on behind the secret door than he let on, and more than once she was certain she’d seen the bulge of a firearm under his arm, beneath his coat. But he was Flora’s brother, and she’d known him for more than a decade because she and Flora had been friends since they were ten. The two girls had grown up on the same street in Skittlesville, walked to the same school, and had the same ferocious piano teacher.

  In fact, that was how they’d come to be such good friends—bonding over their mistreatment by Mrs. Pevensey. Macey’s mother died when she was very young, and her father—who worked for the British government—had promptly sent her as far away from him as possible. She was shunted off on several family members from the countryside of England to New York, and finally to farm country in the Midwest when she was ten. From then on, Macey was raised by a distant cousin and her husband, who owned a timepiece shop in the tiny Wisconsin town. Then Macey’s father had proceeded to get himself killed in the Great War. She was left with only vague memories of him—a tall, dark, and austere man.

  Her memories might be vague, but her feelings toward him were not. Loathing, disgust, and pain rose inside her whenever she thought of being shipped off and abandoned by someone who was supposed to love her—at least a little.

  “Any luck finding a job?” Macey asked, leaning close to her friend so Flora could hear her over the music a
nd loud conversation. They’d moved here from the tiny town of Skittlesville together, initially getting jobs at the same secretarial pool. They’d always helped and encouraged each other all along the way. But in the last few months, since Macey got her dream job at the university library and Flora lost hers at the pool, she’d seen less of her friend.

  “I had an interview yesterday for a position with another typing pool, but I’m not sure if they’ll call me back. I—uh—knocked over a mug of coffee, and it spilled everywhere on the lady’s table.” Flora rolled her eyes and smiled gamely, but Macey could see the frustration in her gaze. “I’m such a klutz.”

  “I’m sure they knew it was an accident. How was your typing test? From what I hear, those office typing pools want someone who can type fast and accurately, and who cares about spilled coffee? And last I heard, you were at seventy w-p-m!”

  “Well, considering the fact that I knocked the cup over before I even got to the typing test, and it spilled onto Miss Henworth’s light pink skirt and stained it…I never even got to the test.”

  Macey bit her lip. “Oh. That’s not good at all. Do you have any other prospects? I keep looking at the job postings at the university to see if there’s anything for you. I’m sure I could get Dr. Morgan to recommend you if we find a suitable one.”

  “Thanks. But I think I’m going to try looking for something non-secretarial. Maybe I’ll work in one of the garment factories. I’m going to head over to Ingram’s first thing in the morning. And if they don’t have anything, I’ll go to Chestwick.”

  Macey tried to keep her expression neutral. Working in the garment factories was tedious, low-paying work. Flora was much too smart and fun and lively to be hunching over a sewing machine at a long table with twenty other women, straining her eyes over tiny stitches day after day after day. “Oh, don’t give up yet, Flo. I’ll ask around. Maybe there are some jobs that haven’t been posted.”

  “I have to pay rent, Macey. Because I sure as shootin’ don’t want to move back home. As mean and crabby as my landlady is, she’s better than living with my mother.” The musicians started a new song, and Flora stood abruptly. “It’s the ‘Tiger Rag.’ Come on, let’s shimmy.”

  Macey rose and adjusted her stockings, which were rolled down to just above her knee. Her shift-like dress was made of robin’s egg blue satin, with beaded, flounced layers from the dropped waist to just above the knee. The dress hung loose and straight on her body, which made it easier to dance, and its skinny straps held it in place but left her shoulders and arms bare. She’d pinned a large red rose to the front of one strap, and she’d slipped another on a comb into her dark, curly hair.

  She’d chosen to wear an older pair of shoes instead of the blister-inducing Mary Janes from yesterday and was glad she’d opted for comfort over fashion. Surprisingly enough, the blisters had healed overnight and were nearly gone, but she decided not to tempt fate if she was going to be dancing all night.

  The dance floor was crowded with other flappers in their shift dresses, high heels, and bare legs and arms, mingling with men in spats and sleek suits. Macey recognized a good many of the regulars in the establishment, including some of their other friends. She waved across the space to Chelle and Dottie, who had found some young fellows with whom to dance. A few weeks ago, Macey met a nice one with a sweet smile and round glasses that steamed up endearingly when they did the Charleston. They’d danced twice and chatted for a while, but she hadn’t seen David (she didn’t get his last name) since. She was hoping he might appear, and so kept looking around the club to spot him.

  As she shimmied, arms and legs flying, long necklaces bouncing, feet skimming and tapping across the floor, she noticed a young Negro woman sitting in a corner near the band. She was about Macey’s age, or maybe closer to twenty-five, and had very short black hair that cupped her head like an elegant cap. Her skin was the color of rich caramel. The woman sat alone, observing the dancers, watching the musicians, and seemed to constantly scan the room from the long bar to the entrances and the mirrored walls.

  By the time the fourth song ended, Macey was damp with perspiration and joyously out of breath. Her feet hurt, but she didn’t care. She was glad she’d recently had her hair cut short in the new bob style that went just past her jaw, because it kept her cooler. It occurred to her the bespectacled David might not even recognize her if he did show up, since she’d had all of her hair cut off.

  Ready for something cold and wet, Macey left the dance floor, giving Flora a little wave. As she made her way through the rows of tables crowded together, she felt someone watching her. It was like a cool breeze over the back of her neck, raising the fine hairs there in an insistent prickle.

  With a little bump of her heart and a flutter in her belly, she changed direction, walking over to the long bar. Leaning against the counter, she looked casually around the room as she ordered a strawberry lemonade.

  She didn’t see David’s reddish-blond hair and was ready to return to the table when someone jostled her from behind.

  “Looking for a vampire?” came a voice in her ear.

  Macey’s stomach flipped in surprise as her cheeks flamed with chagrin. She whirled to find Grady sitting on a bar stool behind her. “No,” was her unimaginative retort as her brain scrambled to catch up to reality. Where had he come from? She’d been watching the entire place.

  “Good.” His expression was sober, and now that he wasn’t wearing a hat, she saw his hair was a rich sable brown. Cut short around the ears and neck, it was deliciously wavy and thick at the crown. He’d shaved since yesterday, but his fingers—which drummed impatiently on the bar—were still ink-stained.

  Her cheeks had cooled by now, and Macey made a swift decision to sit on the stool next to Grady instead of going back to her table. She didn’t want him to think he’d scared her away, especially since she’d fairly run off yesterday.

  “Are you with the fuzz?” She leaned her elbows on the counter and looked at him. He had a solid, square jaw and elegant nose. His was a very good-looking face.

  Grady’s eyes, which had taken to scanning the room, settled back on her. There was a trace of impatience in them. “No, chickie, I told you—you’ve got nothing to worry about from me. If you’re wanting to go through that mirrored door back there—the one that’s not as much of a secret as Hownley-Joe thinks it is—and sample some of Capone’s hooch, I won’t be telling anyone.”

  “That’s not why I asked,” she replied, refusing to allow him to annoy her. The man seemed to have a chip the size of the tragic Titanic on his shoulder, and something compelled her to find out why. “You seemed well-informed about Jennie Fallon, and you greeted that officer by name yesterday. I thought you might be a plainclothes detective or something like that.” She shrugged and noticed the way his attention followed her movement. She could feel his gaze sliding over her bare shoulders, and a warm tingle shivered through her belly.

  “You do know what they say about the cat and curiosity, don’t you, chickie?”

  “Is that a threat?” she asked, keeping her voice light even as her heart started to pound a little harder. For the first time, she wondered if he knew so much about Jennie Fallon because he was involved. He could be a gangster. Or a rapist. Maybe she should go back to her table and forget she’d ever met Grady.

  If you could call their interactions “meeting.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not with the fuzz, lass. That was my uncle yesterday, if you must know. It seems as if you might be as inquisitive as I am, so I suppose I can’t be faulting you for that.” His eyes met hers, and Macey felt her concerns ease. Possibly in part because of the lovely rhythm of his brogue and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. “I’m a newshawk for the Tribune, so naturally I have an interest in news in the city. Good news or tragic news,” he added ruefully. “Like Jennie Fallon.”

  “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her,” Macey confessed. That, along with three nights of dreams about vamp
ires chasing her, had made her feel even more jumpy and nervous than when she heard machine guns in the distance.

  “Can I get you something?” asked the bartender, approaching them for the first time.

  Grady grimaced. “Sure and I wish you could. You don’t have what I want.”

  “Welcome to the club.” The bartender set a short, heavy glass on the counter.

  “That’s flat.” Grady met the bartender’s eyes. He gave a brief nod, then returned to looking around the room.

  Macey slid off her stool. Obviously, their conversation was over.

  But she hadn’t taken one step when those ink-stained fingers reached out and landed on her bare arm. “So why did you say that yesterday?” Grady leaned toward her.

  He came close enough that his shoulder bumped her bare one, and an intriguing, masculine scent came with him. She almost replied Said what? but caught herself in time. Edging away so she could look at him, she answered as honestly as she could. “I was reading a book about vampires, and they were on my mind. That’s all. It just slipped out.” She sat back on her stool, the fringe from her dress shifting and sliding into place.

  “Do you believe they exist?” He watched her steadily.

  “Of course not.” But even as she said so, that little prickling at the back of her neck grew stronger. Discomfited, Macey twisted in her seat, looking over her shoulder at the jumble of people in the club.

  Her breath caught when she spied the glimpse of someone in the shadows…the flash of a face that seemed familiar, that reminded her of someone…but then he was gone, slipping behind a decorative pillar and then into the crowd.

  “What’s wrong?” Grady craned his neck to look as well.