Then he lunged. His hand planted heavily on her belly, covering her vis bulla as he plunged his fangs roughly into the juncture of neck and shoulder. Macey jolted and screamed as he punctured her skin, felt the exploding release of blood surging from her veins.
His mouth was horrible: one lip hot and the other cold, each sensation revoltingly distinct. They fastened on her skin as he sucked deeply from her. The m-kuh, m-kuh, m-kuh sound of him drawing in and swallowing filled her ears in a horrible rhythm, like the heartbeat of death.
Macey could feel the life draining from her, her strength ebbing, the smell of her own blood, the fainter scent of burning flesh. His weight forced her into the seat, into the foulness of the other vampires who held her, his hand pressing, burning into her belly as the vis seared his palm.
The sound of shattering glass filled the air, and pieces rained down inside the auto. Everything turned to chaos, and in the midst of it Macey tumbled to the floor.
She landed on her pocketbook again, which shocked her into action, but by then a dark arm had jackknifed in and slammed into one of her captors. The vampire who’d held her feet burst into foul-smelling ash, and just as she grappled her stake out of the bag, that same strong hand grabbed her and she was plucked from the auto.
She caught a glimpse of Chas’s face—dark, livid, and intense—as he yanked her past him and fairly tossed her to the ground. He dove back into the car, smooth and dark and powerful, extracting another figure. His new combatant fought with sharp punches and a head-butt. But Chas took the head-butt on his temple and flung the undead against the side of the auto. With one low, upward thrust, he held the vamp by the neck and rammed a stake up through shirt and vest, driving it into his heart. Just as the vampire poofed into nothing, the vehicle leapt forward, its door slamming closed from the sudden velocity. Chas jumped back as the tires squealed, and the auto blazed into the night.
By the time Chas turned to her, Macey had pulled to her feet. Panting and trembling, she held her unused stake. Her knees wobbled and she wasn’t certain she could even form the words to thank him.
“I…” She swallowed, realized her dress was literally hanging off her, and pulled the fragments closed.
“Good God.” He whipped off his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders far more gently than she’d anticipated.
“Chelle. Oh my God, they have Chelle,” she managed to choke. She swayed and grabbed at a tree, but nevertheless managed a few desperate, staggering steps after the auto.
Chas looked at her, his mouth curving down as he caught her arm to steady her—and pull her back from the chase. “There’s nothing to be done now.” He hesitated, then said, “Let’s go. You need…hell, you need everything.”
~*~
Chas had no choice but to take Macey back to his rooms. He didn’t even consider bringing her to The Silver Chalice. Vioget certainly couldn’t see her like this, half naked and with blood everywhere.
Hell, Chas shouldn’t even see her like this—at least the half-naked part. At least, not yet. He smiled grimly to himself.
His small flat was conveniently situated on the top floor of a carriage house right next to St. Anselm’s Church. What better place for a vampire hunter to live than in the shadow of a holy place?
Chas unlocked the door and Macey stumbled in, still clutching his coat around her shoulders. He had given it to her for modesty just as much as his own self-preservation. The flash of breast and belly, even covered with blood as they were, had been burned into his mind’s eye.
This is probably not your best decision ever, Woodmore.
But when he closed the door and turned on a lamp, getting his first good look at her, whatever lewd thoughts he might have harbored disintegrated.
He’d seen worse. On the dead.
“I…” She swayed and allowed her knees to buckle. Fortunately, the sofa was behind her and she sank into it. And, by God, she was still holding her stake. Despite everything else, he had to give her kudos for that.
First things first. “Let me see what they did to you.”
She peeled the coat away from the blood congealing on her neck and shoulders while keeping it modestly over the rest of her torso. Her glossy black hair was crusted with blood and wild with curls that made her look as if she’d just been well fucked. And the way the coat bared her slender white shoulders was more than a little tempting.
But Chas wasn’t thinking about that—he was looking at the four ugly gouges in her throat. Larger than a normal bite, they were angled and deep, already turning black and crusty around the edges. On anyone other than a Venator, those types of wounds would have been fatal—or worse. Fortunately, he’d arrived in time, or Nicholas Iscariot would have marked her for good.
But unfortunately, Nicholas had been the one vampire Chas hadn’t had the chance to slay before the auto careened off down the street, narrowly missing his foot. Damn and blast.
“This is going to sting.” He felt her brace herself, and he poured a generous helping of holy water in one fast deluge. It was best to get it over with quickly.
When the water hit her wounds, Macey arched and hissed sharply, biting her lip as she turned away to hide her face. Her breathing turned into panting, but there was nothing to be done to alleviate the pain until the blessed water did its work.
So Chas stood and set some water to warming over the stove, then located a cloth and one of his few shirts without bloodstains. His fury simmered well beneath the surface, where he intended to keep it—at least for a while longer. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”
She looked up at him, those velvety brown eyes even larger than usual, and shook her head. “Not…like that.” At least some life had come back into her expression.
Good. He gave her a bowl of warm water sprinkled with more holy essence. The small silver cross he kept for such purposes soaked in the bottom of it. She smiled her thanks, but wariness lingered in her eyes, and she still clutched the coat like a fur stole around her bare shoulders. The blood had been mostly washed away by the rush of holy water, and a bolt of heat roared through him as he noticed the curve of her collarbones. With her head of full, unruly hair baring a long, elegant neck and those full lips, she suddenly had him thinking all sorts of untenable thoughts.
Putting the cloth and shirt on the table next to her, he turned to give her privacy, himself a breather—and to find something for them to eat.
And drink.
He wondered if Macey would deign to sip a whiskey if he poured one for her, after her ordeal. She sure as hell earned it.
“I know you’re a young Venator, but you did a very stupid thing. ” He cracked an egg forcefully into a bowl. Then followed four more, and, after consideration, a fifth and sixth. He was damn hungry—he’d anticipated eating dinner before having to slay vampires.
“No, I didn’t.”
Her cool, steady response made him furious for a variety of reasons, and the anger he’d managed to contain beneath concern and efficiency burst forth harshly. “What the hell do you—”
“I did several—no, many stupid things in the last two days.” She raised her voice even louder.
He couldn’t argue with that. From evading him last night and trying the same again tonight—fortunately, unsuccessfully—to letting herself get dragged into a damn limousine by Nicholas Iscariot. What the hell had she been thinking?
Chas drew in a deep breath and gritted his teeth.
She’d turned away on the sofa, but the coat was gone and so were the remnants of her clothing. He could see the titillating shape of her white back, the curve of her shoulders and flare of her hips, and the delicate bumps of her spine and scapulae. From the rear, you’d never know she’d been assaulted by one of the most powerful vampires in the world…except for the single dark wound that showed just over the back of her shoulder. And unfortunately, he had a very good idea what the front of her looked like. Watching Wayren insert the vis bulla in the intimate area of her belly had only been the begi
nning.
“You’re damn right.” He added milk, salt, and pepper to the bowl. “I was being kind when I said a stupid thing.” He whisked with more violence than necessary.
Chas actually heard her snort at that. So unladylike from such a feminine creature—who was, he reminded himself, a warrior in training. “Kind is not a word that comes to mind when I think of you.”
He grinned in spite of himself. “You and everyone else, lulu.” He poured the eggs into the pan he’d heated and slipped a couple of pieces of bread in the oven to toast. “I didn’t realize you’d left the library yesterday until it was much too late—you made certain not to leave via your normal route, which I hadn’t expected. Because why the hell would you avoid me when you knew we had work to do?” His jaw cracked as he ground his teeth.
“Because you commanded me to wear something that showed off my legs, you…you goon. I’m not your damn moll.”
“You have excellent gams, and they’re a good distraction—”
She made a furious sound and turned. Fortunately, she was buttoning up the shirt she’d just pulled on and there was nothing to see except a disappearing shadowy vee. “I have no desire to distract you—”
“Not me, lulu. The undead. Gangsters. A bouncer at a club or the doorman at a speakeasy. Whoever needed to be distracted.” He bared his teeth at her in a knowing smile. She made an angry sound and flattened her lips into a hard line.
And just as quickly, the last bit of levity evaporated from his mood. Anger blazed through him when he was reminded of her folly, her brazen stupidity. “And then you made a point of trying to do it again tonight. Good God, Macey. I thought you had more sense than that. And I had a hell of a time tracking you down. You’re damn lucky I had the skills and desire to do so.” He hoped like hell she’d learned her lesson.
She rose from the sofa and came over, showing those shapely legs and nothing else beneath his loose shirt. “You irritated me when you made the assumption I was going to be at your beck and call last night—or ever—and you made it even worse when you told me what to wear. As if I was nothing more than a showpiece to be on your arm.”
“I told you to bring a stake.” He plopped a spoonful of eggs onto a plate with more force than necessary.
“I did. Tonight, anyway.”
What the hell did that mean? He made no effort to hide his anger. “You nearly got yourself marked, Macey. Your pride and stubbornness almost removed you from the picture completely. You’re a damned Venator. There is no fucking room for pride or bruised feelings or willfulness.” He shoved the plate with the smaller portion across the counter toward her. “Eat.”
She glared up at him, her expression mutinous. “I worked hard all week. And for the last month! I wanted a night out with my friends last night, and tonight—well, yes, I should have been more prepared, I should have had my stake in a more handy place than the bottom of my pocketbook—and I’ve learned my lesson about that. I just wanted a break. A night out for some fun after three weeks of training. Is that too much to ask?”
He gave her a cold, flat smile. “Your only nights out now are going to be with me and a stake. You’ve got a job to do. We’ve got a job to do. And every night you stay home, every night you shirk that duty, Macey, someone else will die. Many someones. Do you understand that? We don’t get fucking nights off. We don’t have the luxury of sleeping in a comfortable bed, resting after a long day, or going dancing with friends…because when you’re sleeping at night, or when you’re flirting and giggling and gossiping, someone in this city is being mauled and torn apart and fed upon.”
That shut her up.
She drew in a breath that shook visibly, turned her eyes downward, and let her fork clatter gently to the counter.
He took a bite of eggs, and they tasted like dust. Dammit to hell. He clenched his jaw and kept his mouth shut and chewed. Took another tasteless bite. There was no sense in sugarcoating the truth. She needed to know what she’d signed up for, that people relied on her, that her calling was a vocation.
“Look—”
“They took Chelle. My friend. I’m pretty certain she was…she’s…” Macey shook her head and looked up at him. Ferocity mingled with grief and shame in her expressive eyes. “He knew she was my friend. It wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t random.”
“Of course it wasn’t. Haven’t you been listening to anything we’ve told you? You’re a Venator, and not just any Venator, but the daughter of Max Denton. Your lineage is not simply impressive, but stellar. The moment you were identified as a Venator, you became the most dangerous person in the world to Nicholas and Count Alvisi. You’re the heir to Il Gardella. They want you dead—or, worse, they want you under their control.”
~*~
The wounds in Macey’s neck still throbbed, but that discomfort was nothing compared to the awful, ugly sensation growing inside her.
What have I done?
“What did you mean I was almost marked by Nicholas Iscariot?” she asked, half curious, half wanting to change the subject. She needed to grieve for Chelle. She would grieve for her; she would cry and rage for her…but not here, not with Chas. Not now.
She glanced down at the meal he’d made. He had been amazingly kind and considerate—such a contrast to his normal self, and so surprising in light of his barely concealed anger with her. Oh, yes, she could see how livid he was.
“Like Lilith the Dark did to Max Pesaro.” When she looked blankly at him, his expression turned to irritation. “You need to bone up on your history. Suffice to say, the few vampires closest to Lucifer are more powerful than that of the minions they control. Nicholas Iscariot, whom you met tonight, and Count Alvisi are two of the fewer than half a dozen of that inner circle of Lucifer’s—and they’re both in Chicago, for some damned reason. Probably because of you as much as Vioget, now that I think about it. They might want his rings, but they’re also most certainly interested in you.”
Macey blanched and her insides swished ominously, but Chas didn’t seem to notice. He continued his history lecture. “Iscariot in particular is close to Luce because of his relation to Judas. If they should mark you—which is an intentional process that is reserved for only select victims—it happens when they’re in the process of feeding on you. The way I understand it, there is a special something—some essence, some intoxicant—released from their saliva that seeps into your blood and, for lack of a better term, it hooks or connects you to them. You remain mortal, but tied to them irrevocably. Your wounds never fully heal—unlike normal vampire bites.”
Macey felt lightheaded and reached to touch the four raised marks on her neck. “Am I marked?”
“I’m certain I interrupted in time. But Wayren will be able to tell for sure—and perhaps Vioget. But I warn you—don’t allow him to see you like that.”
“Like what?”
“Bloody.” His unfriendly eyes pierced her. “He’d be on you in a moment. The blood, and the fact that you’re the spitting image of your great-great-grandmother.”
A deep, hot shiver caught her by surprise. He’d be on you in a moment. That golden, bronzy body, those elegant hands and sensual mouth—then she went cold. And nauseated. “You mean…he’d…feed on me?”
Chas gave a sharp, bitter laugh as if he’d followed her train of thought. “Yes. And then his soul would be lost forever.”
Macey might still be missing large chunks of information about the undead, but this she understood. Or thought she did. “He’s been a vampire for over a hundred years, and he’s never fed?”
“Not on a mortal. He drinks of course, but with the stockyards here, there’s an ample supply of fresh blood.” Chas’s expression focused pointedly on her. “Which is why it was so vital that you accepted your calling. He needs you—or believes he does—to save his soul. Or something of that nature. Vioget isn’t known for sharing information.”
“So because he’s never fed on a mortal, his soul can still be saved.”
“Or so
we believe. Once an undead feeds on a person, violating their very life, the vampire is damned to belong to Lucifer for eternity.”
All that wasn’t in The Venators, at least as far as she’d read. Macey drew in a long, deep, ragged breath. What have I done? What am I going to do?
Chas pulled a dark bottle from beneath the sink. It was labeled “vinegar,” but as soon as he opened it, she smelled spirits. Without commentary, he set two finger-high glasses on the counter between them and filled both—one nearly to the top and the other halfway.
“Take your pick.”
Instead of reaching for either, Macey pulled her hand back. “I don’t think so.”
The bottle replaced in its spot beneath the sink, Chas leaned on his elbows and faced her across the counter. His gaze fastened on her, steady and dark. “It won’t hurt you and it’ll take the edge off your pain. I still see shock lingering in your eyes.” He slid the fuller glass toward her. “People have been drinking spirits for thousands of years. Do you think the United States government really has the right—or ability—to stop us from imbibing if we wish? Volstead is a farce and everyone knows it.”
Macey eyed the amber-colored whiskey. She’d been just over fifteen when Prohibition went into effect, and, yes, she’d had her share of sips of moonshine and beer at the swimming hole back home, both before and after the passing of the Eighteenth Amendment. There wasn’t much else to do in Skittlesville besides drink, swim, or sled (depending on the season), and attend petting parties with the boys. And she’d done them all.
“It may be a farce, the law,” she said, closing her fingers around the drink, “but the Temperance people have a point. Spirits are evil to families where the fathers spend all the money on liquor or hit their wives and children when they’re in their cups. Or drink themselves to death.”
She thought of the last two years before her foster father, Hank, died, when he was in so much pain from the knot of cancer growing in his abdomen. He drank steadily all day, so he had to do his watch repair work early in the morning before his hands became too trembly. The drink gave him some relief, but in the end, his dependence on spirits cost Melissa, his wife, and Macey most of their livelihood and more than a few bruises.
Roaring Midnight (The Gardella Vampire Chronicles | Macey #1) Page 18
