On the kitchen table was a typewriter and sheaves of paper, which Grady tidied into a neat stack as she looked around. Notebooks and pencils littered the counter and coffee table. A stack of newspapers sat on the floor next to the armchair. A camera with its strap looped around it was on a side table next to the chair, along with a telephone. There was mail addressed to “Mr. J. Grady” (well, that answered the question about his name). On a compact table in the corner was a jumble of mechanical objects and tools: padlocks, keys, handcuffs, timepieces, and wires of all shapes and sizes.
“I wasn’t expecting company,” he said, picking up a mug and then a pair of shoes. “But I’m glad you’re here.”
“It looks comfortable. And cozy.” She lingered at the shelf over a fireplace, examining the array of photographs, suddenly feeling awkward.
The pictures were a welcome distraction. Many were city streets that definitely weren’t Chicago. There was one of Grady with his Uncle Linwood and a pleasant-looking woman she assumed was the aunt who’d been killed in gangster crossfire. Then Grady with two other men sitting at a restaurant table, toasting each other with beer mugs. Another of Grady, tall and straight, dressed in an Army uniform and standing next to a broad-shouldered, muscular man who looked familiar. It took her a minute, and then she recognized him as the great Harry Houdini. Next to it was the photo of a bride and groom along with Grady, and what looked like a wedding party. Most of the images were framed, but there were some loose ones with curling edges, stuck behind others.
So different from the stark, austere flat in which she’d slept last night. By contrast, Chas had nothing in his living space except furnishings, food, and whiskey. He’d offered her his bed, but she opted for the sofa, and once she was settled, he told her he was going out.
“There are a lot of hours left of the night,” he told her, yanking a hat down low over his forehead and hefting a stake.
This morning, she awoke to find a note advising of his return, suggesting toast for breakfast, and informing her he’d be awake by noon. To Macey’s surprise, her half-drunk glass of whiskey was still on the counter next to the message.
She had no idea when Chas came back; he must have been incredibly stealthy. And she had no desire to wait for him to wake at noon, even though she hadn’t told him about her encounter with Big Al, for, in a blast of desperate hope, it had occurred to her she might have been mistaken about Chelle. So she’d scrawled her intention on the bottom of his note and left.
Grady spoke, breaking into her thoughts. “Do you want anything?”
You.
The thought popped into her head so unexpectedly and with such ferocity Macey blinked. She realized it was true on many different levels, and the certainty of it baffled her.
“No.” She went to the window and looked out, wondering how the group of children in the courtyard could be playing tag so innocently when there was so much evil surrounding them.
Couldn’t they feel it? Couldn’t they sense it?
“You’re involved in something serious—and dangerous. After what happened Friday night, you can’t deny it anymore. Tell me, Macey.”
She shook her head. There was simply no way to explain it and not sound looney. She didn’t want to talk about it. She wasn’t even ready to think about it. Chelle was dead. Mrs. G was dead. Not just dead, but tortured. In Macey’s bed, which had been a clear and obvious warning. And Flora—
She spun from the window. “Grady. My friend, Flora…oh, God, what if she’s next? What if they got to her?” She started for the door, but he moved swiftly and intercepted her.
“Tell me her name. Her address. I’ll have Linwood check, make sure she’s all right.” He took her shoulders, his long-fingered hands steady and warm.
“She’s working at a place at night. I don’t know where. I haven’t heard from her in days. If they get her too…” She pressed her lips together. “Or Dottie.” It was all she could do to keep from shrieking and wailing.
What was happening to her? To her life?
“Where is she working?” Grady’s voice was calm. He took her by the hand and brought her to the sofa, then picked up the telephone receiver.
“I don’t know.”
He handed her a paper and pencil. “Write down her name and address. I’ll call the station and have Linwood or someone go to her house. If she works nights, she should be home sleeping now, right?”
Macey took the paper and wrote Flora’s information on it with a shaky hand, and then Dottie’s as well. “Will you have your uncle check both of them?”
Grady nodded, his face grave. “Sit down. There isn’t anything you can do right now.”
But that wasn’t true. Not at all.
Macey was a Venator. The person who could make a difference, who could hunt down the bastards who’d killed her friend. Wasn’t that her calling? Her responsibility?
According to Sebastian and Wayren and Chas it was. But, despite the vis bulla, the training, her encounter with Iscariot, the concept was still unfathomable.
Utterly exhausted—physically, mentally, emotionally—Macey wandered around Grady’s home while he called the police station. A glance out the window told her it was many hours until dark. Until the evil ones would come out. She had time.
She had a reprieve before she had to act. Her fingers trembled.
Standing at the window, looking down again at the young boys playing outside, Macey noticed something that made her go still. The windowsill beneath her fingers was made of wood. And it had a trio of silver crosses embedded in it. She looked more closely and saw that someone had gouged the three plus-shaped figures in the wood…and it looked as if silver had been poured into the indentations.
Startled, she spun and found Grady watching her, just as he settled the telephone receiver back into place. “I did that two weeks ago. On every window and the threshold of the doors. There’s the flathead screwdriver I used, right there.” He pointed to the table with the tools. “I melted down some old silver that belonged to my aunt. Had it blessed at the church, too.”
Macey could only nod.
“I’m not about to take any chances. The Venators claims an undead can’t enter your home uninvited, but I’m fairly certain you didn’t invite in the vampire who climbed through your window.” His smile was crooked, but his eyes were still grave.
“No. But Mrs. Gutchinson…did.” She choked a little as she was assailed by the memory of the frail woman spread-eagled on the bed, drowning in her own blood. Despair settled heavily over her, weighting her insides like a stone in the pit of her belly. “I tried to warn her, to explain not to let anyone she didn’t know into the house…”
“But you can’t really explain that to just anyone. Can you? Macey. You know I know. You know you can tell me. I have my suspicions, but I’d rather hear it from you.”
She looked away. The desire to tell him, to unload everything in her heart and mind on this man with the elegant hands and sharp mind and steady, empathetic gaze, was so strong she could taste it. But the truth was bitter and unpleasant, and she knew it would change everything between them. Somehow.
“At least tell me what happened last night.” His voice was taut.
That she could do. “All right.”
He relaxed visibly and gestured to the sofa. “Sit?”
Macey shook her head. “I went to see Flora and she wasn’t home. That’s part of why I’m so worried about her. But her landlady said she was at work, so I left. As I was walking away, an automobile pulled up, and before I realized what was happening, the door opened and someone jumped out from behind a bush. They shoved me inside. There were three vampires in there.”
Her stomach pitched and roiled at the memory of the heavy scent of blood, the sight of Chelle’s torn body, and the feel of the vampires’ iron-like hands, holding her immobile.
“They attacked me. One of them bit me.” She gestured to her neck, thankful the malicious-looking wounds were already healing. “But fortunate
ly, the auto had parked in an alley, and someone must have heard what was happening. He got me out of there.”
“Someone?”
“Chas. The…uh…”
“Right. I know. The man from the diner.” Grady’s voice was cool. “The gangster.”
“He’s not a gangster. He’s a…vampire hunter.” Her voice dropped to a whisper.
A blip of surprise widened his eyes. Not what he’d expected. “You’re telling me he’s a Venator? Or is he some sort of Van Helsing?”
The lump in her throat made it impossible to speak, so she gave a sort of ambiguous nod. “Whatever you want to call it.” She hoped she wasn’t breaking some great Venatorial rule by telling him this.
“So he rescued you, and let me guess—that was his coat you were wearing today.”
“My clothing was destroyed. By the vampires.”
“Jesus.” Grady hissed a low breath. His face was so grim, so stony. “That could have been you, this morning. On that slab.”
“Very nearly was.” Macey couldn’t hold back the horrible memories. They rushed over her in a deluge of evil black sensations and images. The hand burning into her bare skin, the knife tip etching around her nipple, the raking of the same blade down her torso…the brutal fangs gouging her throat and neck. The repugnant smell of heavy blood, of undead flesh, of lust wrapped with malice.
“Macey.”
Grady was there and, hardly thinking, she walked into his arms. They wrapped around her, strong and comforting, and she sank into him. Sagged, rested her head against his chest, allowed herself to let it go. She closed her eyes.
He smelled good. Like man and soap and pine. Something fresh, yet warm and alluring. His heart thudded beneath her ear, solid and steady. “You’re safe now. Safe here,” he murmured into the top of her head.
Safe? Never.
No. Oh no. She would never be safe again. A tremor of realization shocked her, and her eyes bolted open. Never again.
Was this to be her life, then? Forever, until she herself was shredded into a bloody mess?
Did she truly have the strength to live like that? To fight this evil, night after night, as Chas had so bluntly described?
It’s a damned lonely life being a Venator.
Her heart thudded hard, like a bell tolling a sober announcement. Realization—unpleasant and yet calming—settled over her. She closed her eyes, rested her temple against his chest, inhaled him.
She might be lonely tomorrow, next week, in a year. But she wasn’t lonely now. She could think about the future later. And she would.
But for now…
Macey smoothed her hands over Grady’s torso, up and over his shoulders. He tensed, sensing the difference in her touch, and pulled back to look down at her.
Her hand cupped the back of his neck, fingers touching the short, crisp hair there. She pulled his head down, covering his mouth with hers. His lips parted slightly in surprise, then he responded hesitantly with a tentative brush against her mouth. After a moment of reserve, he made a soft sound in the back of his throat then, as if freed from some bondage, began to devour her, pulling her up close along the length of his body. His tongue plunged deep, strong and sleek, delving and stroking. Macey sagged against him with her own low moan and kissed him back just as fiercely.
Oh yes. She wanted this…wanted not to think. Wanted him.
Abruptly Grady pulled away, setting her back from him. He shoved a hand through his impossibly thick, rich hair. “I don’t think this is a good idea.” But his eyes told a completely different story. His breathing was rough and unsteady, and his gaze was hot and brilliantly blue. His lips were parted—not soft and puffy but chiseled and sensual.
Macey stepped closer, her hands returning to his warm chest. She could feel the outline of muscle beneath her palms, the thundering of his heart, the heat of his skin. “Why not?”
“I wasn’t about bringing you here for this sort of thing.” The brogue came out so thick and lilting, Macey’s knees trembled. It was a beautiful cadence, deep and musical and rough with desire.
“I know.”
“And you’re upset. You’re not thinking so clearly. I’m not about to be taking advantage of that, lass. It’s not my way.”
“You’re not taking advantage, Grady. I kissed you, remember?” She smiled up at him, her heart swelling large and warm, certainty flooding her. His hesitance was only making her want him more, making her want to experience this with him. And no one else.
“And Macey.” He stepped back, breaking all contact with her. His gaze changed from avid to icy blue. “I’m not the sort of bloke who’s fond of followin’ in another’s steps. That’s not my way either.”
It took her a moment to pull out of her haze of desire to realize what he meant. “Chas? Oh, no. Not him. Not…not anyone, Grady. I’m…I haven’t done this before.” She felt a prickle of hurt that he’d think that of her, but immediately discarded it. After all, she had been wearing an overcoat—and nothing else—this morning.
“No?” He still appeared wary, still kept space between them. “Then I’m sure as hell it’s not a good idea.”
“Is that so?” A sudden, wild combination of boldness and affection for him coursed through her, and she swiftly unbuttoned the top button of her blouse. She felt his attention settle at the widening vee of her shirt, and he stilled. The second button came undone beneath her nimble fingers, then a third. Now a good portion of her Simington’s corset showed, along with a hint of cleavage.
“Macey.” Grady sounded strangled.
She merely slanted a hot, meaningful look up at him. Holding his gaze, she slipped out of her shoes. Then bent slowly and carefully to roll the flesh-colored stocking down over her left leg, then tossed it away.
“Wait.” His voice lashed out. She looked up at him in surprise. But his eyes were a glittering midnight blue again. “Let me do the other.”
Heart pounding, Macey rested her right foot on the seat of a chair, her knee bent. Grady’s elegant fingers were steady and sure as they slid up along the length of transparent silk. Then, curving his hands around her thigh, just beneath the hem of her skirt, he flipped loose the garter and began to ease the stocking over her knee.
Macey’s breathing was unsteady, and her whole body had been shocked alive. His touch was warm and erotic in the simplicity of sliding the whispery silk down her calf. She couldn’t control a shiver that started in her belly and made its way down her limbs, mirroring his touch.
When he reached her foot, Grady looked up and caught her eyes as he stripped off the stocking and tossed it aside. “I’ve been about wanting to do that ever since you climbed into my Ford.” His voice was deep and husky.
She smiled and he curved his hand over her lifted thigh, sliding his fingers beneath the silk of her skirt, and pulled her into another kiss. This one had neither tentativeness nor wild lust. But it was very thorough and filled with promise, leaving her breathless and hot.
Without warning, he lifted her into his arms and carried her effortlessly up the stairs to the second floor. Macey vaguely noticed wood paneling on the flight up, but she was more interested in unfastening as many buttons of his shirt as she could get to, and tasting the warm skin of his neck and jaw. His hair smelled as good as the rest of him, and it was silky and soft against her cheek and beneath her fingers. The opening of his shirt revealed smooth skin several shades darker than her own, and the hint of dark hair and sleek muscles.
In the bedroom, Grady released her, and she slid down his long body then stepped back. The bed was just behind him, sunshine spilling over the wrinkled but pulled-up bedclothes.
He looked down at her, question in his eyes. Macey’s response was to reach for his vest and begin unfastening the three buttons there. He sank obligingly onto the edge of the bed, settling his hands over her hips. She wasted no time and flung the vest away, then his shirt. Beneath was that sleeveless white undershirt which fit like a second skin, showing smooth biceps, square
shoulders, and the outline of his solid, flat pectorals.
Macey swallowed hard, her insides hot and fluttery at the thought of touching and kissing this powerful male body. She couldn’t keep from running her hands up and over his chest, exploring the warm slabs beneath her palms and the firm shape of his broad shoulders.
Grady tugged her close, and she stepped between his thighs as he set to unbuttoning the rest of her blouse. She looked down, watching his nimble fingers, golden brown against the soft pink silk, pulling it away to reveal her white undergarment. The blouse wafted to the floor, but before he attended to the corset, he readjusted and shifted so she was sitting on him, straddling his thighs with her skirt and knickers hiked up nearly to her hips.
“Much better.” His voice was a dusky murmur as he slid his hands up her bare arms and along her shoulders. He paused when his fingers reached the marks at the junction of her throat and looked at her. “Does it hurt?”
She shook her head and leaned into him, her confined breasts brushing his t-shirt. He seemed to understand and rained gentle kisses along the sensitive skin of her unmarked shoulder, his tongue making hot, sensual strokes over the ridge of her neck and throat. Macey shivered, delicious, liquid heat rolling through her body. He nibbled more, gently sucking and licking the delicate spot beneath her earlobe. A dart of pleasure stabbed her in the belly, and down to the hot center between her legs. She shifted insistently in his lap.
Grady made a soft sound, then eased away and began to tug on the side lacings of her corset. It loosened easily, and he had the complicated garment undone and was soon pulling it away with surprising efficiency.
“I can never be understanding,” he murmured, tugging the bust-to-hip side-lacer up over her head, “why you women are about binding yourselves flat nowadays.” The Simington’s landed with a splat on the floor. “Especially when you look like this.” His voice was rough and unsteady, and he looked down at her bare torso…then stilled.
Roaring Midnight (The Gardella Vampire Chronicles | Macey #1) Page 20
