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

by Colleen Gleason

  He’d walked no more than half a block, huddled under his protection, when two pairs of black shoes and legs appeared in his vision. They straddled the walkway in front of him.

  Sebastian looked up and then over to see an automobile, its door open, and two more pairs of black shoes and trousers standing next to it. He gripped his coat tighter, knowing the moment his clothing fell or was pulled away, he’d fry—which left him limited options for defending himself.

  “Sebastian Vioget.” A vaguely familiar voice drew his attention to the vehicle, and Al Capone emerged. “I believe it’s time you and I had a talk.”

  ~*~

  Despite the fact that she and her friends were up past three o’clock, talking and giggling, Macey didn’t sleep well at Dottie’s. She had too many things to worry about, too many things on her mind.

  So though dawn was barely breaking at five-thirty, she left and went back to her flat, secure in the knowledge that at least she wouldn’t encounter any vampires. And most likely, if Grady or Chas had been waiting for her, they’d’ve given up by now.

  She tried not to think about the possibility of Capone’s thugs waiting for her too.

  But there was no one threatening lurking about, and Macey slipped up the stairs to her flat. She tumbled to bed and slept for a short time, then got up and went to work—all without seeing anyone, even Mrs. G. (Although she heard her talking loudly on the telephone when she passed by her door.) When she was finished at the library, she stopped by Cookie’s. Temple wasn’t there, but there was an adorable new hat Macey commandeered. Then she went home and got changed to go to Flora’s.

  But when she arrived at her friend’s boardinghouse, Macey hit a dead end.

  “That Flora’s not here,” said her bad-tempered landlady. She reeked of spirits, and Macey had to step back off the stoop to keep from being overcome by the fumes. “She’s got that job now.”

  “What kind of job? On a Saturday night?” Macey glanced up the street, hoping against hope she’d see her best friend loping home on her long, freckled legs. She smothered a pang of guilt. If she’d been around instead of being so busy with Temple for the last few weeks, she’d know all about Flora’s job. They would have gone out to have a celebratory cup of coffee or, better yet, a chocolate sundae at Frank’s.

  “Saturday? Is it Saturday?” The woman looked around as if to see the day of the week written in the twilit sky.

  Macey gritted her teeth. “What job? Where is she working?” Maybe she got a position at a department store. Chelle worked on Saturdays sometimes.

  “Some place…I don’t know.” The landlady—whose name Macey could never remember—shook her head as if trying to sort out her memory.

  “When does she usually get home?” Maybe if she waited long enough, she’d catch Flora coming back. It was nearly seven o’clock. And if there was one rule her best friend had, it was Fridays and Saturdays were for fun. Since she’d missed the gala at the Palmer last night, surely Flora had social plans for tonight.

  In anticipation of this, Macey had already dressed to go out in a loose, silky frock with a dropped waist, perfect for vigorous dancing. Two strands of fake pearls hung to the wide sash at the bottom of her hips and another of Cookie’s hats—this one a crocheted cloche—sat on her head. As she stood on the stoop, the handkerchief-style dress hem fluttered pleasingly against her calves in the gentle spring breeze.

  Macey looked up the road again. Surely Flora would be coming home soon, getting ready to go out—even if she wasn’t going with Macey. But…if she was working for one of the garment factories, she might not get off the clock until seven, or even later. Those girls worked long hours for low pay, and in such cramped spaces.

  The landlady blinked, then refocused. Macey could almost hear the slosh of moonshine in the woman’s brain. “She just left! I tell you that girl just left for her job. She don’t come home till all hours of the morning now. Wakes the whole house, she does, slamming the door.”

  Macey felt an uncomfortable squiggle of concern and guilt. Working at night, coming home in the darkness—such a habit was more dangerous a prospect than she’d realized even a month ago. Now she knew the undead lurked and lingered along with the more common threats of thieves, rapists, and gangsters.

  The April evening was getting cooler now that the sun had gone down and Macey pulled her wrap closer around her shoulders, wishing she hadn’t given away her heavier velvet one last night. “I need to find her. Do you remember anything about where she’s working? Anything at all? A restaurant or theater maybe? You must remember something.”

  The landlady scratched her red-veined nose. “Nah. Nothing. Maybe a blue circle, though.” Her bleary eyes became focused. “Yes, that’s right. She wore a blue circle to work.”

  She wore a blue circle? Whatever that meant, Macey didn’t know how she’d find out, for the landlady was clearly finished with the conversation and slammed the door without warning. Probably needs to get back to her hooch.

  Slowly, she turned to leave. Her insides were in turmoil, laden with guilt and worry. She had no idea her friend had been working at night. Macey had to help find Flora a new job—a normal one. She would put aside her training for a while, even loan her friend money to pay the rent if necessary until she did. But Flora simply had to get a better job. A day job.

  The sun was low in the sky when Macey walked back down the steps from the boarding house. Grass grew wildly in the front yard and in the cracks of the sidewalk, and one of the upper shutters hung haphazardly from its moorings. One basement window was missing, the opening covered by a warped board. Not the most well-kept place. Not in the best neighborhood.

  Flora could do better. And Macey could help her. She should have helped her months ago.

  She wore a blue circle. What did that mean? Some sort of uniform? Maybe Jimmy would know.

  The problem with Jimmy was, it wasn’t easy to contact him either. He moved around from job to job and place to place himself. He often acted as a bouncer in some of the saloons or dance clubs, living with friends or even an occasional girl, then finding another as needed. He was always sweet and protective of his sister and her friends, but neither Macey nor Flora wanted to know too much about what he did for his employment, and he didn’t like to share.

  She walked briskly along the uneven sidewalk, holding her pocketbook close so its clasp wouldn’t snag on her silky dress. The street wasn’t deserted, for autos drove by regularly, but there wasn’t a taxi in sight.

  Now what? She could stop by Dottie’s and see if she and Chelle were home, or if they’d gone dancing again. The last thing Macey wanted was to spend Saturday alone or practicing spins and leaps and mid-air kicks with Temple. And she definitely didn’t want to be with the bad-tempered Chas Woodmore—who, by the way, hadn’t even come to her flat last night, according to Mrs. G.

  A car pulled up along the street next to her just as the wind picked up, bringing a chilly breeze over the back of her bare neck.

  No, that wasn’t a chilly breeze. That was—

  Everything happened very quickly. The car stopped, its door opened, Macey spun away and ran two steps before she slammed into someone who’d emerged from behind a tree. She had the breath knocked out of her, and the back of her neck was freezing as a powerful, claw-like hand clamped over her nape.

  Before she could gather in a scream, a great shove sent her crashing into a mailbox, knocking the breath out of her. Then strong hands grabbed her, manhandling her toward the auto as she kicked and struggled while trying to catch her breath. Her necklace broke, sending beads scattering on the sidewalk. She landed a good blow in someone’s gut, and jabbed someone else in a glowing eye with her elbow, but she was overpowered.

  Macey’s hat tumbled to the ground, and she lost her grip on the pocketbook as she was shoved into the back of the open car.

  ELEVEN

  ~ Wherein Our Heroine is Taken for a Ride ~

  Macey landed in the backseat on her hands and k
nees, and before she could recover, another rough shove sent her sprawling face-first onto the floor amid several pairs of shoe-clad feet. The floor was gritty and spattered with oil, and a heavy, cloying scent filled the air.

  She noticed one female and two male pairs of shoes just as the auto door closed. “Keep her down,” someone growled.

  A hand twisted a fistful of her hair and whipped her to the floor again. Pain streaked over her scalp, her knees were scraped and bruised, and she was out of breath, taken utterly by surprise. She hadn’t managed a squeak, let alone a scream. The vehicle started off with a gentle lurch, and she kept her head lowered for the moment, panting, as she looked around from her vantage point among her abductors’ feet.

  The back of her neck felt as if a block of ice was pressing there, which told her she was in the presence of more than one undead. And the backseat of this auto was unlike anything she had ever seen. It was roomy, and there were two bench seats, facing each other, like on a train. A covert look told her there was a third seat facing forward, where the driver sat. Surrounding her were three pairs of male shoes and one pair of Mary Janes. But something was wrong with the Mary Janes—and the feet they were on. Even in the dim light, she saw one high-heeled shoe dangling awkwardly from an unmoving foot, its strap catty-wonker and the button loose. The legs attached to the shoes sagged open.

  A shiver streaked up Macey’s spine, this one having nothing to do with the presence of an undead. She looked up the woman’s body and saw the blood. Everywhere. It stained the front of her clothing, running in long rivulets from multiple wounds on her neck, shoulders, and wrists. She couldn’t see if she was conscious, for the woman’s head was tilted back into the shadows.

  By now she recognized the dull, heavy smell in the air. Macey drew in a deep breath and realized the oil on the floor was not oil but blood. She closed her eyes, fighting back nausea and terror. This is not good.

  And it wasn’t Al Capone…unless he’d sent some vampires after her.

  She was trapped in an auto with three undead. No one knew where she was. And her stake—the one stake she’d added to her pocketbook at the very last minute tonight—was in her pocketbook, which she’d dropped as she was shoved into the auto.

  “Macey Gardella. Thank you for joining us.”

  The speaker wore the cleanest, newest, most fashionable pair of men’s spats in the group. She lifted her face to look at him and her body went even colder. “You.”

  It was the lean, dangerous-looking man who’d visited the library several weeks ago, asking for Miss Gardella. His eyes glowed faintly red, but he said nothing more; merely smiled at her, showing a hint of fang. Then he looked across at his companions and gave a slight nod.

  Before she could prepare herself, Macey was dragged up onto the opposite seat by the other two men. Four hands, large and rough, imprisoned her as she tried to twist free. She bucked and twisted with all her might, using the chunky heels of her Mary Janes like billy clubs.

  But, strong as she was with her vis bulla, she was no match for the two undead in the small confines. Already shocked and out of sorts, not to mention aching from the violent blow to the head, she was murky and slow. Her heart pounded and she couldn’t catch her breath as the two held her immobile, sprawled between them on the seat. One wrapped an arm around her head, holding it at an awkward angle as he gripped her left wrist.

  The other grabbed her right arm, then slid his free hand up over her thigh and along her hips, dragging up her skirt and baring her garters and the bottom of her knickers. Macey twisted sharply before he got to the juncture of her thighs and managed to free one foot, whipping it into her captor’s cheek. He grunted when the heel slammed hard, then scraped along his cheek. This caused him to loosen his grip, giving her the opportunity to jam an elbow into the groin of her other captor. He cried out and backhanded her so hard her ears rang, and she tumbled to the floor again. Her knee landed on something sharp and with a start, she realized it was the clasp of her pocketbook. How did my bag get in here?

  But she didn’t have time to wonder, or even try to open it and fumble for the stake. They forced her back up onto the seat, this time holding her arms and legs even more tightly, stretching her at full length across the car so she had no ability to coil and buck.

  Her chest heaving, internal organs turned to ice, Macey realized she was in serious trouble. Her one hope was to get the stake out of her bag. Which meant she had to get back on the floor again.

  “Who are you?” she demanded, looking at the presumed leader. If she distracted them, got them talking, maybe she could take them by surprise and free herself. “What do you want?”

  “Hold her.” Something flashed in the leader’s hand, and Macey stiffened when she discerned a knife blade.

  She tried to wring herself free once more, but the four hands binding her were so strong and tight they might have been manacles.

  The dagger gleamed in the bare streetlight that stole through the auto’s window, and Macey realized the vehicle was no longer moving. They were going to kill her in this dark alley and dump her among the garbage. The man from the library reached for her, and with a sharp, swift movement, raked the knife straight down the front of her.

  Her dress split and fresh air spilled over her torso as impersonal hands yanked the material away, uncovering her from breast to hip. Her head swam and her temple throbbed; something trickled from her eyes, and she realized it was a trail of tears.

  Most of her breasts and belly were bare. Macey could see the growing stripe of blood all along her sternum to her stomach. And there, gleaming in the low light, was the silver vis bulla, settled in her navel.

  “So you have taken the amulet.” He looked up at her, his eyes burning red-pink, his fangs bared. “You are the Gardella.” The tip of his tongue slipped out, caressing his thin lips. His eyes turned brighter.

  “Did Capone send you?”

  “Capone?” His eyes narrowed. “No, he did not. But I’m fascinated that you should think he might have done.”

  “Who are you, then? You know who I am, but you’re too cowardly to tell me who you are.” Macey forced every bit of strength and bravado into her voice she could. “And you need two goons plus yourself to capture me. What does that say about you?”

  He laughed and reached toward her with the dagger again. She stiffened, preparing herself for pain. But he used the metal tip to flip the tiny silver cross as if it were a plaything. “Nicholas. Nicholas Iscariot at your service, Macey Gardella.”

  She tried to steady her breathing and calm her heartbeat to keep her torso from shuddering with every pulse and every breath. Iscariot continued to play with the knife, tracing it over the white, trembling skin of her belly, drawing an occasional line of blood, then returning to slide the blade’s tip into the circle of the vis and jiggle it almost gently.

  She tensed, waiting for him to slice it free, knowing the moment he did that, she’d lose what little strength she had left. Then it would be all over.

  And no one knows where I am.

  Fighting despair, knowing her only chance was to get her hands on the stake, Macey glanced at the woman who sagged next to Nicholas in the corner of the auto. She hadn’t moved, and although she was mostly in shadow, Macey was certain she wasn’t going to be moving any time ever again. She swallowed hard, knowing that was to be her fate unless she did something. Very soon.

  “Oh, did I not introduce you?” Nicholas followed her attention to the victimized woman. He smiled coldly, and the knife moved away as he pulled on the bloodstained arm next to him. Macey caught sight of ribbons of flesh where the chin, neck, and shoulders had once been, mingled with the torn fabric of her clothing, dark and congealed and smelling of iron. The woman had not merely been fed on; she’d been destroyed. Mutilated. Bile rose in the back of her throat, and she swallowed hard.

  Nicholas paused, his smile widening. “Ah, but wait…I believe you already are acquainted with this evening’s entertainment, aren’t
you?”

  The woman’s head lolled forward, then back sharply as he yanked her upright, but not before Macey saw her face clearly in the low light.

  She barely held back a scream. Chelle. It was Chelle.

  “No,” she breathed, hysteria rising from deep inside. She couldn’t hold it back, it bubbled into her throat and threatened to explode in a horrified cry. “You didn’t…you…” She choked and tears swam in her eyes. A band of horror wrapped around her chest, tightening, tightening, and she fought and twisted and bucked wildly against her captors.

  “Now, now,” Nicholas said, shoving Chelle back into the corner of the auto as if she were a rag doll. “Let’s not overset ourselves. It could have been much worse, you know.” Then he cocked his head to one side and smiled. His gaze burned like a glowing ruby as it skimmed along her bared skin, which appeared silvery white in the unsteady light. Macey could hear the deep, guttural breathing of the vampire nearest her head, and he gripped her wrists even tighter. She had no feeling in her hands and felt her bones grinding against each other.

  The scent of blood was heavy in the air, and now some of it was hers. Her heart pounded harder and deeper. Like a death knell.

  Nicholas adjusted her dress, pulling it apart enough that one breast was fully exposed and her undergarments fell away completely. As her heart pounded violently, visible in the vibration of her breast, reverberating through her limbs like a stampede, he used the knife tip to draw a light circle around her areola. A tiny bead of blood dripped down one side, merging into the first slice he’d made down her torso. It burned and stung, but she hardly noticed the pain. She feared it was nothing compared to what was to come.

  “There was once a very powerful woman of my kind,” her tormentor said conversationally, “who was fond of the combined ecstasy and pain she would experience from touching something so powerful” —he indicated the holy strength amulet by lifting it from her skin with the tip of the knife, pulling the upper lip of her navel taut— “while taking her pleasure. Feasting and feeding and whatnot. I’ve always wondered what that might be like. If I would enjoy it myself.”