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

by Colleen Gleason

  She’d taken two staggering steps toward the painting-door when a strong hand clamped around her arm and plucked her backward so hard she nearly flew through the air.

  “What the hell is this?” It was Capone, and he yanked her arm up by the wrist—the hand holding the stake. His gaze speared her, black and frightening, and for a minute, Macey lost her inebriated facade. Their eyes clashed, and then she sagged back into her act, stumbling against him.

  “Wha…?” she said, tilting her head in confusion while looking up at the stake as if she’d never seen it. “’S broken. Sheeeeshhh…how’d it get bro-ken?” It took every bit of strength she had to keep herself loose-limbed and wide-eyed, as she looked from the stake to her captor and back again. His grip was painfully strong. A little harder and he’d break her wrist.

  “Who the hell are you?” Capone demanded, thrusting his face close to hers.

  Her heart was in her throat now, and her insides a jumble of nausea and nerves. But she kept a tight grip on the stake, knowing if she had one chance, this would be it. This would be the chance to kill Al Capone. She was close enough.

  She gritted her teeth, struggling to keep focused while finding a way to aim the stake for his vulnerable spot, even as he gripped her wrist in a death-hold. All of a sudden, he flung her away from him. “Get the fuck outta here.”

  She slammed against the wall, her head cracking hard as it whipped back into it. By the time she pulled groggily to her feet, Capone and his goon with the gun had pushed past her and were gone—back out the painting-door and into the cabaret. The injured man lay at her feet, eyes glassy and wide as blood oozed from his wounds.

  Macey knelt next to him and checked the bite. He’d live, but the man needed help. And if she went for help, people would panic, wouldn’t they? Seeing bite wounds on a man’s neck? Heck, seeing any blood would probably turn things upside-down. Maybe she could…yes, she could wrap them up so it wasn’t obvious.

  Then…Grady.

  Damn it. It would just make him ask more questions, demand more answers. But she knew he’d help.

  ~*~

  Grady was shooting the bull with motion picture theater mogul Sam Katz and the Tribune’s managing editor, Rob McCormick, when he caught sight of Macey. Immediately he knew something was wrong—her face was pale, her expression tight, and her pocketbook and wrap were missing.

  He set down a glass of the excellent, grain-distilled whiskey Katz had smuggled in via his chauffeur and wove his way through the ever-growing, increasingly inebriated crowd.

  “What happened?”

  She spun at his demand, displaying obvious relief at his appearance. “Thank God. Grady. I need your help. There’s a man…he’s injured. He needs help.”

  He didn’t give a damn about an injured man. Not at the moment. “What happened to you?”

  Her hair was out of control and her head-thing with the roses was askew. The silky, transparent dress she wore was torn at the shoulder seam, and one of her long necklaces was missing. And her wrist was red and chafed. “Are you all right? Who did this?” He controlled the need to grab her and demand answers.

  “I’m not hurt. But there’s a man who is. Will you help me? Grady, please. Before someone else finds him.”

  She didn’t even wait for him to respond; she just turned and started off across the room. Of course he followed, and when she pulled him through a secret door courtesy of Bacchus and he saw the man…and the wounds. He looked at her.

  “What the hell is going on, Macey? Dammit, you better tell me what the hell you’ve gotten yourself involved in.”

  She shook her head, her eyes cool and steady. “It’s a whole lot of bad luck. Being in the wrong place at the wrong time. There’s nothing more to—”

  “Jesus Christ, Macey, do you really think I’m that stupid? Would you believe it if you were me?” But he was already kneeling at the man’s side. Battling anger and disbelief at her continued equivocation, he put that aside for the time being to attend to the man.

  Fortunately, the victim was conscious and strong enough to be helped to his feet, but he couldn’t walk on his own and there was blood every-damn-where. The sight of it would send people into hysterics. “Where’s your wrap?” Grady demanded. “Or a scarf.”

  She understood immediately and darted off, returning more quickly than he expected. She had the wrap and her pocketbook back in her possession—which led him to believe she’d put them aside herself and they hadn’t been taken from her or knocked away during the assault. A woman didn’t just leave her pocketbook. He filed this information away for future contemplation.

  Arranging the heavy velvet throw around the injured man’s neck, Grady helped him out of the secret room. With no sign of blood, everyone would merely assume the man was drunk.

  Macey came along with them, also pretending to be inebriated, announcing to anyone who’d listen that her “man” had so much to drink that he’d decided to wear her shawl, and wasn’t he adorable?

  If Grady hadn’t been so furious, so deeply confused and concerned, he might have been filled with admiration for her play-acting. She was convincing and entertaining at the same time, petting the soft velvet, stumbling about, batting her eyelashes.

  And he was completely besotted with her.

  Between the two of them, they got the “drunken” man out of the cabaret, up through a staff elevator, and out a side door of the Palmer. For a variety of reasons, Grady thought it best not to alert security, but to take the man directly to the hospital.

  He had one of the bellmen hail a cab, and when the taxi pulled up, Grady eased the injured man into the backseat. “Get in,” he said, turning to Macey.

  But she was gone.

  ~*~

  After she ditched Grady (again), Macey didn’t want to go back into the secret cabaret again, for fear of encountering Capone. She wasn’t quite ready to face the man with lethal black eyes and power exuding from him.

  But if she went home, there was the chance she’d be accosted by everyone from Mrs. Gutchinson to Chas to Grady.

  There was always Cookie’s, for she knew where a key to the back door was hidden. But then she might have to answer questions about why she wasn’t out with Chas, hunting vampires.

  So Macey sat in a corner of the lobby of the Palmer for a while, listening to the jazz trio in the corner, watching the people go by. If Chelle or Dottie would appear, maybe she could go home with one of them and sleep at their house, thus avoiding Chas and Grady that much longer.

  While she waited, Macey had nothing to do but think. Which wasn’t a particularly good thing, considering the fact that she’d just had a very unsettling encounter with the kingpin of all gangsters.

  But she couldn’t help mentally reviewing everything that had happened in that secret hallway, and all at once it struck her—the chill. The chill at the back of her neck…had been gone.

  Macey frowned and thought very hard, dragging back into her mind every part of the memory from that moment when he had her by the wrist, his dark, cold eyes boring into hers. She felt terrified, and adrenalin rushed through her…but she hadn’t been cold.

  Which meant…Capone hadn’t yet been turned undead.

  She drew in a deep breath. Exhaled. So I was wrong. I guess that’s good; he hasn’t been turned yet.

  Then a little shiver caught her by surprise. Good grief. I almost tried to stab him.

  What would he have done if she had? Macey shivered and felt a little nauseated at the thought. Lordy, she hoped he didn’t realize what she’d been up to. Hopefully, he believed her drunken act and wouldn’t think twice of it.

  Why would a guy like Al Capone be worried about a gal like her bothering him, anyway? Surely he wouldn’t even remember the incident.

  But what was he doing with a man who had a vampire bite if he wasn’t a vampire? Saving him? Perhaps. Or…

  Macey mentally snapped her fingers. Right. Alvisi was trying to get Capone on his side. What better way to do that th
an to bring him into the Tutela first? Even remaining mortal, Capone would be a great asset to the vampires, with his network of power, people, and funds. Perhaps even more valuable than if he were turned undead. Chas and Sebastian were wrong.

  The vampires didn’t want Capone turned. They just wanted him on their side. A full member of the Tutela.

  Macey subdued a shudder at the thought of those people who craved the attention of the undead. Likely the man she and Grady had helped was a member himself—or maybe someone Capone had brought as a guest to the undead, just as Alvisi had done to Victoria Gardella a century ago.

  Having come to that conclusion, and uncertain what to do about it, Macey turned her thoughts to something less unpleasant. Flora. What was up with Flora?

  While Macey wasn’t overly worried their friend hadn’t shown up tonight, it was still unusual for her not to have heard from her for such an extended time. She and Flora had been best friends for more than a decade. They’d even moved to Chicago within a month of each other. And since none of their group of friends had telephones in their apartments, they had to rely on using those of others—and rely on any messages being delivered. If something had come up at the last minute, Flora had no way of letting anyone know. And with Flora, things like that happened all the time. So her absence wasn’t terribly worrisome.

  But since Temple showed up at Macey’s flat and Flora left in a little bit of a huff, Macey realized her friend might even be sulking a little, and waiting for her to contact her. And she hadn’t. Generally, Flora was too happy and upbeat to hold a grudge against anyone, though, so maybe she was just busy with her new job—and her new guy.

  Macey would go visit her tomorrow. Unfortunately, Dr. Morgan insisted she come in for a few hours, even though it was Saturday, because of preparations for the upcoming fundraiser. But she’d go over later, drag Flora out dancing. They’d have a great time.

  She looked at the huge clock on the lobby wall. Nearly midnight. No sign of Dottie or Chelle, or even the helpful manager Ben. The gals might have already left. Macey sighed. Might as well go home herself. She did have to work tomorrow.

  Outside, the chilly April night made her wish she hadn’t donated away her wrap. The breeze seemed to blow right through her gauzy frock. Unwilling to draw attention to herself (in case Capone had his men watching for her—but would he even do that?) and ask a bellman to flag her a taxi, she walked down the block away from the hotel toward the motion picture theater.

  Though it was late, people clogged the sidewalks everywhere, coming from the vaudeville show, the theater, the hotel—or on their way to one of them. Cars trundled along, beeping and honking if a pedestrian dared set foot in the road nearby.

  A car slowed next to her, and Macey looked over just as the back door opened.

  “Get in,” said a thick male voice. “My boss would like to speak to you.”

  At the same time, a man emerged from the front of the car. As Macey stepped back, she caught sight of a black metal object in his hand. She didn’t need to see anything else.

  She dodged the hand that lunged for her and took off down the sidewalk, weaving between people, bumping into them, causing outcries in her wake. Back at the Palmer, standing by the doormen, she finally felt safe enough to turn and look back.

  Her pursuers—if indeed they’d even pursued her—were nowhere in sight.

  Now what?

  She went back into the hotel, and, luck of luck, Dottie and Chelle were standing in the lobby, looking around. When they caught sight of her, they rushed over.

  “Where have you been?”

  “We’ve been searching everywhere.”

  “Oh, I got caught in a tangle—had to help a man who got hurt, uh, in a fight. We called him a cab. Hey, Dot, mind if I sleep at your house tonight? Mrs. G’s going to be waiting at the door for me, wanting to grill me about the gala.” Macey was looking around the lobby even as she spoke, watching for anyone who appeared to be looking for her.

  “Sure, Mace. A pajama party sounds great. Haven’t done that in months.”

  Still leery, Macey insisted they leave through the exit at the far end of the hotel, opposite the main entrance. They hailed a cab and rode off.

  As she watched for anyone who might be following them, Macey realized she’d opened one hell of a can of worms.

  Al Capone was definitely looking for her.

  ~*~

  Whenever he could manage it, Sebastian conducted his private vigil at Old St. Patrick’s just before the sun rose. Not only was the church always empty at that time, still as a tomb, it was also the least likely time of day for him to be found and ambushed by Iscariot or Alvisi—or any of their goons.

  And it required him to leave the church after or during the breaking of dawn, which only added to the experience.

  So to speak.

  The first few times he’d walked into a church after being turned undead, Sebastian thought he’d self-combust as soon as he stepped over the threshold. But when he brushed his fingers over the vis bulla at his belly and rubbed the red signet ring from Wayren into his other palm, the blaze of pain ebbed and he was able to continue inside. That was how he knew he still had some humanity, some bit of his soul, buried deep inside.

  Not to say it was pain-free, those moments inside a holy space. Not in the least. But Sebastian bore it, as he’d borne his “long promise” all these years.

  Tonight—or, rather, this morning—though it was approaching four-thirty, Sebastian found he wasn’t alone in the nave. The single other occupant was a woman, kneeling in front of the Blessed Virgin Mary on the left side of the church. A collection of red candles, many of them twinkling with tiny flames, cast a soft, pinkish glow in the dim space. He could tell she was a woman simply because of the shawl over her head and shoulders. A tingle of awareness shuttled through him as it did when Wayren was present, and he frowned, his attention settling on the veiled figure.

  It wasn’t Wayren. But there was something in the air, some energy, some prickling, that sizzled between or around them.

  He must have made a scuff on the floor, for she turned slightly as he forced himself to continue on, stopping where he always did: at the fourth row from the back. He caught a glimpse of her face and got the impression she was frail and elderly—though not as old as he himself was. Gritting his teeth against the incessant pain, he knelt in the pew, and the old woman returned to her prayers.

  As he settled in place, Sebastian noticed the five rings on his mutilated left hand. He’d lost half his baby finger in 1821, thanks to a bloodthirsty young woman named Sara Regalado, but it was the ever-present copper bands that captured his attention.

  Even though it had been so long, he still occasionally tried to dislodge them. But while his skin hadn’t grown around them during the last century, thank fortune, the circles would neither twist nor turn. It was as if they were affixed to his flesh. Part of him.

  And there they would remain until someone drove a stake through his heart.

  There was always the possibility of decapitation, or even frying to a crisp in direct sunlight, but when he thought about his death—which was absurdly often, considering the fact that he was immortal—Sebastian pictured the fast, painless pike to the heart. Poof. He’d be gone.

  And whoever killed him would take possession of the rings.

  That’s why you’re here.

  The voice was in his head, firm and clear, as if someone was sitting next to him, speaking in his ear.

  The rings. The pool. The prism. To keep them safe.

  He opened his eyes and turned. Wayren was there, smiling serenely at him as she tended to do. Merely looking at her eased the throb of incessant pain.

  Sebastian looked over. The old woman was still kneeling in front of a bank of candles.

  “She’s quite devoted.” Wayren glanced toward the veiled figure. “As are you.”

  “How delightful to see you again so soon,” Sebastian murmured. “You disappear for more than a
decade, and then you appear twice in less than a month.”

  She shook her head, still smiling. “Now, Sebastian, sarcasm is not one of your best attributes. Best to leave that to someone who wields it better.”

  “Like Chas?”

  Her eyes twinkled. “You said it. I didn’t.”

  His irritation deflated, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to a full smile. Besides the physical pain, there was still the despair and weariness that had cloaked him so heavily as of late. He felt finished.

  “It’s because of Macey.”

  He looked at Wayren. “Reading my mind again?”

  She shrugged. “It was upon your face, Sebastian. You’re weary and ready to pass the torch—and now that Macey Gardella is here, you believe it’s time.”

  “It should be time.”

  “I cannot speak to whether it should or shouldn’t, whether it is or isn’t. I can’t even say whether she will measure up and fully take on the mantle of her calling. All I can do is bid you be strong, for the challenges you face—all of you—will be great. And there will always be the easy way out.”

  “I haven’t taken the easy way out for a hundred damned years,” he hissed, fully aware that he’d just cursed in a holy place. And at Wayren.

  But again, she merely looked at him with those steady blue-gray eyes. “And you thought Victoria Gardella was strong. She cannot hold a candle to you, Sebastian. Never forget it.”

  With those words wrapping around his mind, settling over him like a cloak, he pulled heavily to his feet. Casting a brief glance toward the praying woman, he gave a nod to Wayren. “I hope to see you again soon.”

  “As do I.”

  Sebastian walked out of the church and allowed a splash of the burgeoning dawn to touch his bare skin. Then, the searing pain still throbbing on his face and hand, he pulled his coat and hat closely around himself.