He chucked Temple under the chin. “You’ve been studying your Venator history. My, my. Well, you just keep on hoping, lulu. Because I live in reality. The undead and their Tutela bitches didn’t have fucking Tommy guns and a corrupt government protecting them back then. If Iscariot or Alvisi turn Capone and he joins the undead, it’s curtains—for all of us.”
SEVEN
~ Of Long Promises and Heartbreak ~
Macey didn’t know what possessed her to walk past Old St. Patrick’s Church, but many hours after leaving The Silver Chalice, she found herself doing just that.
Perhaps it was because she was thinking of the old woman who, only last week, had pressed the rosary into her hand as Macey walked by. Such an odd thing for a stranger to do. Nevertheless, she’d accepted the string of prayer beads and tucked them into her handbag.
She hadn’t thought any more of it until she read in The Venators that vampires were repelled by holy objects, particularly those of silver. Even then, she had no idea the rosary would be of such use to her.
What an amazing, unsettling coincidence.
Macey shivered as she stepped into the silent, shadowy church. Though it had a high ceiling, the space was compact and not terribly grand. The arch of the nave peaked high over her, and blue, red, and yellow stained glass images spilled colorful shadows over the rows of pews. A single aisle led from the interior doors to the dais and altar. To one side, she saw candles in red glass jars clustered in front of a statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Some of the wicks were lit, and their flames flickered randomly. Others were still and silent, waiting for someone to light them in honor of a prayer intention.
Macey dipped her fingers into the small bowl of holy water and rubbed them over the crusty wounds on her neck. It didn’t sizzle and burn as violently as it had earlier, but she still felt a sting of awareness.
She wasn’t Catholic, but something drew her to walk deeper into the small church. The silence. The peace. The underlying energy permeating the holy space.
It was a place for answers.
She hoped.
Only one other person was present when she walked down the aisle and slipped into a row of pews. She saw the figure huddled in prayer near the front, and, loathe to interrupt or even to reveal her presence, Macey moved as quietly as possible onto a kneeler far from the other occupant.
She closed her eyes and folded her hands prayerfully and thought about everything that had happened since yesterday. The violence at The Gyro…the invader in her apartment and his attack…her visit to The Silver Chalice…
Sebastian Vioget’s intense, compelling eyes.
Chas’s calm, matter-of-fact words: “And then…you hunt vampires.”
Can it be true? Her head spun, and her mind was filled with questions, fears, disbelief. And pain.
Had Father really been some sort of soldier against the undead? Supposedly infamous? But it didn’t matter, because he sent her away. He sent a grieving, devastated daughter away when she needed him most. Max Denton could have killed all the undead in the world, but he’d turned his back on her. He might be a hero to others…but he wasn’t to Macey.
But if that was true…was it then her calling to be a Venator? To fight the immortal half-demon vampires—risking her life every day? Impossible to fully comprehend the change such a decision would make in her life—the violence, the danger, the reality of such a vocation. She was a simple library assistant. A woman. Young, sheltered, and hardly able to lift a fifteen-pound box of books. Heck…until less than a year ago, she’d lived in a rural village with the population of only a couple thousand.
And yet…the police—at least, the ones who weren’t corrupt—put their lives in danger every day. There were women on the police force, too. Not many, but some.
And there’d been women who went to the battlefield as nurses during the War. Women voted, ran for office, had businesses, were doctors and scientists and inventors. Were librarians, even. She smiled tremulously in the dim light.
A woman can make a difference. Many women have.
But can I?
She shivered and a sudden vibration rushed through her in a warm, sizzling wave. It surged from the center of her being to her fingertips, to her toes, to the top of her head, like a sunburst exploding from her heart.
You can.
She heard the voice so loudly, so clearly, right in her ear, Macey’s eyes flew open and she looked behind her.
No one was there.
The church was empty. Her heavy breathing echoed in the dim, silent space.
Heart ramrodding in her chest, she settled back onto the pew and tried to calm herself. Deep breaths, long and slow. But those words echoed in her mind as if someone spoke them again in her ear. You can.
Suddenly she caught sight of a movement out of the corner of her eye and whipped around.
“You,” she whispered, clapping a hand to her thudding heart.
It was the old woman.
Macey couldn’t even guess her age, she was so old. Eighty? Ninety? Older? Her skin was papery thin, and infinite wrinkles crisscrossed over cheeks covered by the fine down of hair that often grew on older people’s skin. Over her head, she wore a crocheted shawl of pale pink. A few wisps of thick silver and white hair curled against her cheek and temples. Her mouth, curved in a soft smile, was framed by deep wrinkles. But her chin and jaw were surprisingly firm, and her unblemished skin hardly sagged anywhere.
Her dark eyes were set deep into their sockets, and as Macey looked at her, she was struck by the bright, lucid intelligence therein. For a moment, she was so arrested, she felt as if she were looking into her own eyes, in a mirror.
“You…thank you,” she said. “Thank you for the rosary.”
The old woman nodded, her smile widening and the corners of her eyes crinkling. “Yes. I knew you would make use of it.”
A rush of air lifted tiny bumps on Macey’s arms, as if someone had brushed a hand ever so lightly over her skin. “How did you know that? I’m not Catholic. I’ve never even met you before. I never come to this church. I haven’t ever set foot in here until today.”
A soft, wrinkled hand came out from beneath the enveloping shawl and settled over Macey’s younger, smoother, smaller one. “Sometimes we just know. And when we do, it’s important to listen to the message.”
“Thank you.” Macey’s voice came out in little more than a whisper. Her eyes stung with unshed tears, and she didn’t know why.
Ah, perhaps she did. There was just so much she didn’t understand, didn’t believe…didn’t want to believe.
The woman squeezed her hand, then pulled away as she gave Macey another long look. This time, there was a layer of grief and torment in those large, dark eyes. “Be safe and strong. Your strength is needed.”
Before Macey could think of a response, the woman turned and edged out of the pew. She walked slowly across the church toward the red candles, her movements measured and labored as if every step was a great challenge.
When Macey slipped out of the pew a few moments later, the woman was still there—kneeling on a prie-dieu in front of the glass-enclosed flames, the Blessed Virgin Mary looking down at her.
Macey stopped at the font of holy water near the entrance and swished her handkerchief in it, and then, without thinking too hard about why, sprinkled some of the water over herself.
Once outside, she was startled to find the sun setting. How long had she been in the church? A wave of nervousness had her walking faster. Fear settled in the pit of her stomach as she hurried along the street, around the block, and headed home. She was only three blocks away, but once the sun was gone, the vampires could safely move about. She’d intended to be home and safe before the undead came out.
How foolish she’d been, staying away for so long.
Or maybe she should have remained at The Silver Chalice until…well, until she made a decision. What to do?
But a sense of inevitability had settled over her. She knew what
she had to do. She wasn’t certain when she’d decided. Perhaps because there was no other decision to be made.
When Macey reached the sidewalk to her house, she breathed a sigh of relief. The sun was gone, but a last bit of light lingered. And not one glimpse of glowing red eyes, nor any shadowy figure lurking about.
Once inside her apartment, she’d be safe—now that she knew what to do. Rosary on the windowsill. The door barred and its threshold blocked by the handkerchief she’d dipped in holy water.
And she’d sleep with her makeshift stake.
No. No, she wouldn’t sleep. Not a wink. Not until the sun came up.
To her surprise, Mrs. Gutchinson wasn’t waiting for her. Either the woman had taken a break from spying out the front window, or she was still at her Saturday night mah jongg club. Macey didn’t waste any time, dashing up the two flights of stairs as quietly as she could.
As she unlocked the door to her apartment, she glanced toward the window at the end of the hall. By now, the last bit of sunlight had drained away, and the remaining shadows disappeared into darkness. A shiver caught her by surprise—the subtle chill that seemed to settle over the back of her neck.
A fresh wave of nerves had her stumbling into the darkness of her flat, closing the door swiftly behind her. She bolted it, took out the holy-water-soaked handkerchief, and tucked it along the bottom of the door. She could also put some garlic bulbs along there too.
She stood—and just as she sensed she wasn’t alone, a hand covered her mouth and an arm captured her, pulling her back against a strong body.
Macey was already fighting. She managed to jam an elbow into her captor’s middle and stomp on a foot, twisting and bucking in his powerful grip.
“Shhh, lass. It’s only me you’re pounding on,” grunted a voice in her ear as he struggled to hold her immobile.
“Let me go, you goon!” she hissed.
He released her or she broke free—she wasn’t certain which—and Macey spun to face Grady, furious and frightened and relieved all at the same time. She wasn’t certain her heart would ever return to normal. “What are you doing here?”
“Hush!” He looked at the door. “Tryin’ to keep your landlady from barging in.”
Her breathing was still out of sorts. She drew in a deep, ragged one. “An excellent idea. But, I repeat: What are you doing in my flat?”
“You’re having the brash to ask me that after going off today with that gangster? How else was I to make sure you got back all right?” Grady loomed over her, dark and imposing, and clearly affronted by her question.
Macey set her handbag down and took off her hat, which had gone askew with her struggles. She turned on a lamp and faced him. “I’m all right. As you can see.”
“Aye, and indeed I can,” he said, making a point of rubbing his firm midriff at the approximate point her elbow had jabbed him. “A scrapper you are, Macey Denton.”
“How did you get in here? Surely Mrs. G didn’t let you in.”
He gestured to the broken window—which she hadn’t yet told Mrs. G about. It was now open and offered just enough of a nice breeze to stir the air in the stuffy third-story room. Even from across the way, she could see the rosary still in its place on the sill.
But there was no tree or trellis nearby, and the fire escape ladder had to be let down from the window. She knew he couldn’t have sneaked past Mrs. Gutchinson. “We’re three floors up. How on earth did you get up here?”
He grinned, his smile flashing wicked in the soft lamplight. “You’ve only begun to discover my many skills, lass.” His voice dipped and she felt a shiver that was decidedly not chilly.
But the rosary reminded her of her new reality. The broken broomstick handle sat ready on her dresser, ironically, next to the framed, torn picture of her parents. “So now that you’ve assured yourself I’m safe…surely you can be going now.” Then she realized it was dark, and the night held more dangers than merely gangsters and Tommy guns. An undead could be in wait below. “On second thought, maybe you’d better not leave.”
“Oh?” His dark blue gaze flared with surprise, then turned warm and heavy. Her insides did a slow, pleasant flip as he moved closer. “You’re invitin’ me to stay, are you, Macey Denton? Whatever will Mrs. Gutchinson think?”
Her heart thudded, and for a moment she forgot about vampires and stakes and vocations. “I…”
Before she could formulate the rest of the sentence—which was somewhere along the lines of I don’t care, Grady kissed her.
His lips were soft and warm. Mobile, but most certainly not sloppy.
No, they molded deliciously against her mouth, nibbling and caressing just long enough to make her knees wobbly and her pulse pick up speed. She closed her eyes, and one of her palms settled flat against his chest as she sagged into him. Leaning against his warmth, she parted her lips and his tongue slid past them, strong and bold and slick. He pulled her tighter against his solid chest, his hand sliding up over her bare neck to cup the back of her head. They tangled together, their tongues, sleek and slow and thorough.
When he pulled away, his hand sliding from beneath her curls, Macey realized she’d forgotten to breathe. She drew in an unsteady stream of air as he looked down at her with heavy-lidded, smoky blue eyes. His heart thudded erratically beneath her palm.
“That,” he murmured, “was the best thing that’s happened to me in a long while, Macey Denton.” His grin was a little off-kilter and he reached out again, brushing a finger over her puffy, moist lips. “And I sure as hell hope it’s not the last of it.”
“I’m not making any promises,” she said blithely, trying to regain her senses. She’d kissed boys before, but Grady was definitely not a boy, and this was definitely not the same. Her knees were weak. As she stepped back, she realized the window was uncovered—giving anyone, undead or mortal, a clear view into her apartment. She moved over to pull the curtains closed.
By the time she turned, he’d removed his coat and stood there in his vest and white shirt, tie loose and top button undone. And he was holding a book. She recognized it immediately. The Venators. Her last bit of muzziness from the kiss evaporated.
“Interesting reading. It explains a lot.” He hefted the volume in his hand.
“Does it?” Macey made her voice light, and it was with great effort she kept from touching the bites on her neck.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
Right. And have you think I’m completely looney? “I found the book at the library and started reading it,” she said nonchalantly.
“And of course it’s no coincidence that shortly thereafter, you’re present during a vampire attack at The Gyro, and that your apartment smells like musty death. Oh, and that there’s a wooden stake on your bureau and a bitemark on your neck.” His eyes glinted with irritation and his tones matched. “A mark that seems to be healing quite quickly.” His focus settled heavily on her wound.
“Musty death? I’m sorry you don’t care for my choice of perfume,” she said. “Maybe you should just leave.”
He smiled, but it wasn’t filled with humor. “Nice try. All evidence is that you encountered a vampire in this very room last night, and you—or someone else—staked him. I’ve never smelled undead ash before, but I suspect that’s the awful scent lingering in here.”
Macey turned away, busying herself by removing her shoes and hanging up her handbag and hat. She wished she had the nerve to unroll her stockings and slip them off too. They were hot and clingy, and it was warm in the apartment. Grady’s presence and his avid gaze weren’t helping matters either.
“Macey.” His voice was low and gently urgent, and close. When she turned, he was standing there, looking down at her with intensity and concern. “Tell me about it. You can trust me.”
She bit her lip and looked down. In many ways, she wanted to tell him. She wanted to tell someone, to find a friend she could talk to about this crazy, frightening, unbelievable turn her life had
taken. But she’d only known him for a day!
And if she did tell, he’d either think she was crazy—or, perhaps worse, he’d get as far away from her as possible. What man—especially one who kissed like that—would want to be around a gal who attracted vampires? A woman who was the target of the undead? One who might have to spend her life hunting them?
“I…” Maybe there was a way to balance truth with evasion. “You’re right. I was attacked by a vampire. Last night, in this room. He came in through the window. He bit me, as you know, but I was able to stake him. And he…went away.”
“You fought him off? Yourself?” The light in Grady’s eyes grew admiring and warm. “You’re even more impressive than I realized, lass.” Then the light dimmed and he sobered. “And today. You went off with that gangster. What was that about?”
“I told you. He was a friend.” She smiled, spreading her hands nonchalantly. “I was in no danger being with him.” At least, not yet. “He’s not a gangster, anyway.”
“He’s not.” Clearly Grady didn’t believe her. She couldn’t blame him. “What else, Macey? There must be something else going on. I can’t believe you were randomly chosen by a vampire and attacked in your flat. Three stories off the ground. There are much easier pickings for the undead on the street by the clubs and bars.”
Her heart thudded. He was too damn smart. “I didn’t have a chance to ask him why he picked me. I was too busy trying to get his fangs out of my neck.”
Grady’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “Point taken. Still.” He looked down at the book, then around the apartment. His attention landed on the windowsill. “That’s the most unusual rosary I’ve ever seen.”
“What do you mean?”
“The extra bead.”
Macey shrugged, finally sitting on the edge of her bed. Between the sleepless night, unbelievable day, and that knee-wobbling kiss, she figured she’d earned it. “I’ve never had a rosary before—until this old woman gave it to me one day. About a week ago. Good thing she did, or I wouldn’t have had it to put on the sill. Not that I know whether it did any good or not, but at least it made me feel better. What do you mean, there’s an extra bead?”
Roaring Midnight (The Gardella Vampire Chronicles | Macey #1) Page 9
