She glared at it, and at the memory of Grady’s interrogation. The bag wasn’t large enough to hold a damned stake and he knew it. And what was he thinking, asking her something like that anyway?
Surely he couldn’t know. Surely he was just trying to figure out what he could. And she supposed she couldn’t blame him. After all, he knew she’d staked a vampire. And…hell. He’d spent the night in her flat. Stake in hand. A little quiver of pleasure reminded her how he’d looked that morning, all rumpled and fierce, with his weapon in hand.
Macey refreshed her rose-tinted lipstick and, last of all, powdered her nose. And then, figuring she’d wasted enough time and hoping Grady was involved with something else, she left the mirror to return to the cabaret. On the way out, she noticed an umbrella stand by the door. There were two umbrellas and a walking stick in it. All had wooden handles.
Glancing behind her to make sure no one was watching, Macey filched the only one with a straight handle. Then, in a trice, she broke the umbrella about four inches from the end. Thanks to her vis, doing so was like snapping a toothpick. And now she had a makeshift stake that would actually fit—diagonally, at least—in her pocketbook.
Relieved and filled with purpose, as well as a renewed spike of nerves, she walked out of the powder room.
Grady was waiting outside the door.
“You again. Just like a bad penny.”
He smiled and offered her his arm. “Have I mentioned how bloody sensational you look tonight, lass?”
“No.”
“If you’d care to take a stroll over to one of those tables, where I can be sitting you next to me and drownin’ myself in your deep brown eyes, I’ll be more than happy to tell you how keen I am on you.” His crinkly-eyed smile had her insides warm and fluttery again, and reminded her about that luscious kiss in her flat.
“I suppose I could agree to that.” Though I’ll be the one drowning in someone’s eyes.
As they walked to the table he’d somehow procured, Macey noticed the chill on the back of her neck had eased. She looked around. Capone’s booth was empty, and she didn’t see him anywhere.
She couldn’t deny it—a wave of relief washed over her. I’m not in the mood to face a vampire tonight. And I’m certainly not ready to face Al Capone as a vampire.
“Looking for your friends?” Grady asked as he gestured to a small round booth. Just big enough for two, the seat enabled them to face the cabaret stage where a jazz trio was now performing. A candle burned on the center of the small table, and goblets with seltzer water were already poured. Paper-thin wedges of orange, lemon, and lime were arranged on a small gold-edged plate.
“No. I was wondering if Al Capone had left.” Macey slid in and adjusted the silky fabric of her slip-dress so it didn’t show too much thigh. “I don’t see him anywhere anymore.”
Grady’s expression hardened. “I didn’t take you for being one of those gangster-celebrity watchers.”
“No, not at all. It’s just…I’ve never seen him before tonight, and to be honest, being in the same room as a gangster is a little unsettling. I just wanted to know where he was.”
“So he doesn’t sneak up on you, you mean?” Now he was smiling, and his eyes had gone warmer. “Don’t worry, lass. I’ll protect you.”
“Do you see them often? Gangsters? You must, if you’re a newshound.”
“I prefer newshawk. Hound—the word, not the animal—has such unpleasant connotations. And a hawk is strong and graceful, as well as being a fierce fighter.”
“Thank you for that clarification.” Macey’s tone was nonchalant, but inside she was turning to mush. Smart, literate, charming, and someone she could actually imagine being a strong, fierce protector….Grady was definitely more hawk than hound.
“And in answering your question: Yes, I see and interact with the gangsters a lot. It’s an odd thing. Everyone knows they’re violent criminals, yet they walk the streets without fear of repercussion.” His tight mouth and fierce eyes told her exactly how he felt about that.
“Except they fear one another.”
He looked at her and nodded, his eyes sober. “Those men are repulsive—for what do they stand for but violence, greed, and pure hedonism? And yet, damn it, even though it nearly kills me to say it, I can’t deny the bootleggers do provide a useful service.”
Macey was fascinated by his honesty—and his integrity. “What useful service? Breaking the law?”
“By organizing and regulating the breaking of the law. That warning I gave you and your friends tonight about drinking the whiskey here? I was serious. If you don’t know where it comes from, you could drink something fatal. Saloons serve up poison drinks made from industrial alcohol all the time because it’s cheap and relatively easy to come by. At least we know that the beer Capone’s saloons serve comes from proper breweries. And his whiskey is the same. From a real distillery. You’re not going to get watered down methyl alcohol from one of his places. And that, at least, is one benefit. Despite Prohibition, people are going to drink spirits. At least if they drink Capone’s, there’s less of a chance they’ll die.”
“You almost sound like you admire Capone.”
Grady stiffened, his eyes going flinty again. “Don’t think that for a minute, Macey. I have no respect for that murderer. Nor for any of them—the Gennas, the Torrios, the Weisses. Any of them. They’ve spilled enough blood in this city—both innocent and otherwise. All in the name of greed. I’d be more than happy to see them behind bars, which is one of the reasons I do what I do. Some day, somehow, each of them will be caught out, and justice will be served. If I’m a part of taking them down, I’ll die a happy man.”
“What about your uncle?”
“Since my aunt was killed in gangster crossfire, you can be sure he feels the same way, to the bottom of his heart—and that’ll never change. And let me tell you, lass, he and I—we’re in the minority. But that’s why those bastards still walk the streets and carry their automatics and run this city—because the cops and the mayor and even the governor are in their pocket. They like the money and power too much to come down on them, so they offer protection instead.”
Macey shivered and realized how uncannily similar the description of the corrupt authorities was to that of the Tutela. And how the vampires were very much like the gangsters, wielding underlying power as they controlled their turf. They were invincible. Untouchable.
It was no wonder Sebastian and Chas were worried Capone would be turned undead. That combination of power and influence along with immortality and strength would be lethal.
“Did you know Big Al goes to confession once a week? As if that’d save his soul. I’ll be damned, but I’d like to be a fly sitting on that priest’s shoulder.” His intensity eased a little, the laugh-lines at his eyes appearing once again.
Macey laughed at the mental image, which somehow included a fly wearing a priest’s collar, and her shoulder bumped against his.
“By God, you’re it.” Grady touched her cheek with a gentle finger as he looked down into her eyes. “I’ve had a hard time keeping my mind off you, Macey Denton.”
“Why would you want to do that?” she replied cheekily, even as her heart thudded harder.
“I don’t know,” he murmured. “I must be a damned fool.” He leaned in, gently gathering her near, and settled his lips on hers.
Macey shivered lightly and pressed closer, then slipped her tongue out, teasing it over the seam of his mouth. He inhaled sharply against her and curved a hand over the back of her neck. Gently nibbling on the edge of her mouth, Grady shifted her so she was nearly sitting in his lap. The kiss grew deeper and Macey felt hot and cold at the same time. She forgot to breathe, forgot they were in the middle of a semi-public place, forgot everything but the hot, sensual stroke of his tongue and the full, erotic brush of his lips.
The heat bubbled up from her middle, flushing over her torso and along her throat as the kiss went deeper and hotter. She felt damp and
moist, and the insistent twinge between her legs grew stronger, turning into a delicate little throbbing.
Then a brush of cold air whisked over the back of her neck, beneath his warm hand, raising the hair along her sensitive nape and tiny little bumps on her skin. A faint hint of nausea accompanied the chill and had the effect of yanking Macey from the depths of a hot, languid place she didn’t want to leave—and back abruptly into the secret cabaret beneath the Palmer Hotel.
Where an undead was present.
She pulled away, more sharply than she intended, and had Grady smiling with chagrin. He glanced around as if to see if anyone was watching, then looked back at her. “I lost my head for a minute.” His Irish was heavy and thick, and sounded rich and musical on his tongue.
Macey was trying to steady her breathing and look around for Capone—or whoever the undead was—at the same time. She couldn’t see well enough from their table, however, and much as she was enjoying herself—really, really enjoying herself—she knew she had to at least try to investigate. “Tell me again why you’re here, if it’s not for the booze?”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t for the booze. I’m Irish. I can tell a fine whiskey when I taste one.” His smile turned slow and warm, and Macey got the distinct impression he wasn’t talking about spirits any longer.
She couldn’t control a warm shiver. Damn, but I’ve got to ditch him.
“Now don’t be doing that sort of thing, biting your lip like that, lass, because you’re going to make me lose my head again.”
She smiled and covertly scanned the room again. “Don’t you have to interview people? Or take notes for the story you’re writing?”
“I have the distinct impression you’re trying to get rid of me, Macey.” The warmth in his eyes eased, and he looked at her intently. “What’s going on?”
“I just feel bad I ditched my friends. Dottie got us in here, and it’s supposed to be the three—well, the four of us, but Flora couldn’t make it. I should probably find them.”
He looked at her a moment longer, then, with a tilt of his head, nodded reluctantly. “I’d forgotten the female species tends to travel in packs.”
“Most of the time.” Then she allowed a spark of mischief into her gaze. “And then there are other times when three is definitely a crowd.”
His eyes widened just enough to let her know she’d hit the mark. “You’re about killing me, lass.” But he sighed and slid out of the booth, then offered her a hand to help her do the same. “And I suppose you’re about right—I’d best be getting to work. Editor got me a press pass, and he’ll expect me to get at least a few good quotes and do a good write-up. But don’t leave without saying good night.”
“Hmmm,” was all she said, but with a smile and laughter in her eyes.
Macey strolled through the crowd, keeping to the perimeter of the room while trying to appear nonchalant. In reality she was trying to “read” the chilly sensation that indicated a vampirical presence and determine who was causing it.
When she saw Al Capone standing nearby, surrounded by a cluster of dark-suited men, she veered in that direction. To her chagrin, the chill didn’t ease as she made her way toward the group, and Macey was certain the temperature was becoming even cooler.
In a moment of nervous absurdity, she remembered a game she played when she was young. An object was hidden, and as she tried to find it, the hider would tell her whether she was “hot” or “cold.” This was almost the same thing, except the closer she got to the hidden object, the colder she got.
If only she could get Capone alone. But that would not only be impossible, it would be suicidal. What would Chas do if he were here?
Macey submerged another wave of discomfort. She’d ditched him too, tonight. Of course, he deserved it—the way he announced they were “going out” and to bring a stake. And to wear something that showed off her legs. The jerk.
She wondered if he’d come to her flat to pick her up, or if he expected her to meet him at The Silver Chalice. Or Cookie’s. That was a good excuse, come to think of it. He hadn’t told her where or when to meet him, and so she’d made other plans.
And if she could come back to The Silver Chalice and tell him and Sebastian she’d staked Al Capone…
For the first time, excitement spurred her. She was a Gardella, after all. A descendant of Victoria. She could do this. According to Sebastian and Chas, and even the intriguing Wayren, she was born to hunt vampires.
Macey slipped her hand inside the flap of her pocketbook and curled her fingers around the makeshift stake. She hovered near the wall, in a corner-like indentation behind a cluster of tables. A tall potted plant strung with tiny lights obscured her from the rest of the room. Unless someone was looking closely, she doubted they’d notice her.
She considered several options that might put her in close proximity to Capone, or, better yet, alone with him (well, maybe not better), but before she could decide on one, he turned his head from a conversation and looked up sharply.
At first, she thought he’d noticed her—but even if he did, why would Big Al be the least bit concerned about a young woman standing in a corner?
But he wasn’t looking in her direction. And though he continued speaking with his companions, Macey thought he seemed distracted. Capone kept glancing toward his left, and she noticed he used his conversational gestures to subtly manipulate himself and the entire group so he was eventually facing that direction.
Something had definitely caught his attention—or something was going to happen. Oh no. Not a shootout. Not here, in this confined, subterranean room. Nerves exploded in her belly.
Macey looked over but saw nothing that seemed threatening or worrisome to her. More people. Men and women, smoking, laughing, drinking, flirting. But a subtle change in the prickling at the back of her neck shivered over her shoulders and along her arms, giving Macey the impression her instincts were right.
Something was up.
Capone broke away from his companions with a jovial gesture and one last obviously firm statement, then began what looked like a random ambling around the room. But Macey was watching, and it was clear to her that he had a purpose as he made his way quite rapidly in the direction he’d been watching.
She began to skirt the room in his wake, keeping a distance between them. Then Capone paused near a large floor-to-ceiling painting of Bacchus. Oddly enough, it was obscured by a trio of potted trees, and the lights were low in that area of the room.
She blinked, and Capone disappeared.
Macey hurried toward the painting as quickly as she could without drawing attention to herself. It had to be a hidden door. Her palm felt slick as she gripped the stake, and she dumped her pocketbook in the pot of one of the three plants and draped her wrap over a nearby chair. Hopefully they’d be there when she returned.
If she returned.
Her throat was stone dry and her pulse ramrodded so strongly she felt as if her heart was going to explode from behind her ribcage. She approached the painting, wondering how she was going to figure out the way to open the door…but when she got close enough she saw it was slightly ajar.
Before she went through, she paused…and still felt the chill of the undead.
Taking a deep breath, Macey pulled the Bacchus painting open and slipped in behind it.
TEN
~ Macey Bluffs ~
Macey found herself in a plain, well-lit passageway no more than fifty feet long that ended in a T. One direction probably led to the outside. Thankfully, no one was in sight…although she could hear the sound of voices in the near distance. Two, perhaps three or even four—it was hard to tell, for they were low and intense.
Her heart was so high in her throat, she thought she might choke. But she started along the corridor silently, trying to figure out exactly what she was going to do when and if she encountered Capone.
Suddenly, up ahead, she saw the shadows of several figures reflected on the wall at the end of the hall. Th
ey were moving violently and there was the accompanying sound of an altercation. Bodies thudded and slammed against the wall, and one of the figures tumbled into sight ahead of her. She tensed, easing back—but there was nowhere for her to go. Aware of the ever-present chill at the back of her neck, she remained still, prepared to duck and run if she heard gunshots.
Before she could react, suddenly there were three men stalking down the corridor toward her. One was Capone. Another had blood all over his shirt and he was staggering a bit, held up by the third one—who was carrying a pistol.
She couldn’t move and froze like a rabbit caught in the garden.
“Hey! Who da hell are you?”
Macey was paralyzed. Then inspiration struck. She sagged and loosened her limbs, doing her best to appear drunk. Still holding the stake, hiding it behind her skirt, she tipped her head awkwardly and then stood unsteadily as if she needed to push herself away from the supporting wall.
“Heyyyy…youse…ain’t sh-posed to be in the ladiesh room,” she told them. And pointed with a very unsteady finger that made large, wavery circles in the air.
“This ain’t da ladies room, ya dumb broad,” said the man holding the gun. He looked terrifying. “Git outta here. We got biz-ness in here.”
Macey stumbled away from the wall and tried again. “Sho where ish the pow…der room? I thought…” She looked around, swinging one arm broadly, making herself stagger as if she’d thrown herself off balance, all the while keeping the stake behind her back. She did her best to keep her eyes wide and glassy, and her mouth hanging slightly open. But when she noticed the bloodstains on the injured man’s shirt were from a wound on his neck, she nearly lost her act.
“The goddamned powder room’s not here,” said Capone, his dark eyes piercing her. Violence and power exuded from him. “So I suggest you take your sweet ass out of here sooner rather than later.”
“Okey…doke…y,” Macey said. But she couldn’t leave. The man was bleeding to death. Something—or someone—had interrupted Capone’s feeding, and she was the only chance to save the victim. She could pretend to leave, then spin around and launch herself in their direction. She’d have a good shot if she took them by surprise.
Roaring Midnight (The Gardella Vampire Chronicles | Macey #1) Page 15
