Roaring Shadows

by Colleen Gleason

  Only a week ago she’d been taken to Capone’s penthouse suite, where she found Sebastian trussed and ready to die on the sunlit patio that overlooked Chicago. It was then she learned Al Capone’s astonishing secret, and discovered he wanted her to work for him as his personal bodyguard.

  When she flatly declined, he showed her all of the reasons she should accept his offer. Besides the bound-up Sebastian, there were photos of Macey with her friends Chelle, Dottie, and Flora, with her landlady Mrs. Gutchinson, with Dr. Morgan, her boss at the library at the University of Chicago…and with Grady.

  The threat was obvious: anyone she knew or interacted with would be a target of Capone’s anger—and presumably his Tommy guns—unless she accepted his offer.

  So, bewildered, angry, and sick at heart, she’d agreed to the gangster’s business proposition.

  Sebastian escaped during their negotiation, for which she was supremely grateful, and Macey remained to live out her bargain with the crime boss.

  Until tonight, Capone had ignored her, other than to keep her under a sort of house arrest at his hotel in Chicago. She’d been unable to send word to Sebastian at The Silver Chalice, and the only phone call she’d been allowed to make was to Dr. Morgan at her job letting him know she had to leave town unexpectedly. As far as she knew, no one knew where she was.

  But earlier today, Capone sent one of his goons to bring her via automobile to Cicero, a small town outside the city where several of his distilleries were located. She’d been escorted into the dining room, taken her seat, and sat through the interminable meal, all without a word until now.

  As if they’d been given permission to acknowledge her, the three other men at the table nodded to Macey, mumbling polite greetings as they waited for Capone to say more. Clearly having a single female at dinner was an unusual event.

  Al didn’t bother to introduce the other diners to her. Instead, he slurped his espresso, then stood and began to wander around the table, arms waving expressively as he spoke. “Macey is the newest addition to my staff. She has a special skill and will be providing a very specific service to me. I trust she will remain loyal regardless of any personal temptations that might come her way…just as you have, Bernardo, eh?”

  Capone had stopped behind the youngest and beefiest of his companions and slapped him on the shoulder as Bernardo laughed heartily. “Right, boss. Always loyal ta da family.”

  Macey saw Capone shift and realized what was going to happen—just a split second before his hand moved sharply in front of Bernardo’s tie. A blade flashed, whip-fast, and a stream of blood spurted free, spraying the table and its plates of half-eaten food.

  Bernardo made a soft gurgling sound and that was all. When Capone stepped away, he allowed his associate to fall face-first into a puddle of blood soaking his half-eaten tiramisu.

  Macey hadn’t moved, hadn’t made a noise—and neither had the other two men at the table. As Capone wiped the knife on a napkin smudged with pasta sauce and gravy, he looked around the table.

  Gone was the affable host who’d called for refills on wine glasses and “more pasta for da boys.” Now his eyes were dark, shining with violence and anger. “I take care o’ my boys,” he said, his words sounding more like an accusation than a promise. “As long as they stay loyal to me and my family. But when dey step over da line”—here his Brooklyn accent became thick with cold, steady fury—“I ain’t got no room to forgive. It ain’t da way I run my bizness, you know dere, Leon?”

  The man named Leon, also thick and neckless from daily mountains of pasta, but also balding and bug-eyed, nodded quickly. He seemed unable to speak, and that pleased Capone.

  “You’d never step out on me, would ya, Leon?” said Al, stopping across the table from the balding man. One hand slid into his coat pocket. “Not like Melvin, here, hm? You and Lucky Manachetti been gettin’ awfully cozy lately, ain’t ya, Melvin?”

  “Now, wait, wait—” The man who was presumably Melvin held up his hands, his face draining from florid red to sickly white. “Now, boss, you know, it ain’t what it looks—”

  The gunshot was flat and sharp in the room, effectively silencing Melvin’s pleadings and leaving a red hole in his forehead. The only noise left after that was the fast, rasping breathing of Leon, whose eyes became even more protuberant as he gaped at Capone. His breathing was so unsteady his shoulders actually shook.

  Al slipped the revolver back into his pocket. “Have I made myself clear?” He fixed his beady black gaze on Leon, still ignoring Macey.

  “P-perfectly.”

  “Now get the hell out of here and spread the word to da other boys. You sit at my table, you take my hospitality, and then you spit on me…I ain’t giving no second chances. To no one. And you, Leon—you stay the fuck away from any counterfeiters. Don’t think I don’t know you’ve been sniffing around in that business. I ain’t having nothing done with them.”

  Leon gathered his dignity and rose from the chair. When he passed by Macey, she saw the fine sprinkling of blood on his pale face and smelled the faint aroma of urine.

  As the door closed behind him, she rose from her seat and looked at Capone. She made no attempt to hide her disgust, but she did manage to keep her trembling fingers hidden. The man was as violent and brutal as Nicholas Iscariot, and he’d made it clear no one was safe from his wrath—including the people she loved and cared about. And yet she had no reason to fear him. “Was that display supposed to frighten me?”

  “Frighten you? Oh, no, not at all,” said Al. “That was to remind Leon which side his bread is buttered on. So to speak.” He looked at the bloody mess of the table and grimaced, gesturing to the spattered decanter. “A waste of good vino, but the message had to be delivered.”

  Macey stared at him, revulsion and fury churning inside her. She still could not believe this man was a Venator. He wore the blessed amulet—the vis bulla—that came along with the holy vocation of their family, and he was endowed with the same strength and speed and abilities as she was…

  And he used those abilities to wantonly kill people—to destroy the mortals the Gardellas were meant to protect, the very lives they were meant to save.

  She might have questioned whether he wore a true vis bulla if she hadn’t remembered seeing the name Alphonsus in the Gardella Family Bible, where all the Venators—both born and made—were listed. She had also seen evidence of his superior strength and, despite his bulk, unusual speed.

  “You abuse your powers as a Venator,” she spat. “You’ve used your abilities to build an enterprise of illegal businesses—some of the worst types of businesses, ones that prey on the weakest types of people—and you’ve created it through violence and murder. All for greed. How do you dare wear the vis bulla?”

  He swung toward her, but his expression wasn’t enraged, as she might have expected. Instead, he seemed to accept her fury. “No matter what you think, there, doll, I am still a Venator,” he said. “I am still bound to fight the undead.”

  “And to protect the mortals on this earth. And yet you gun them down, slit their throats, shoot them as they enjoy your hospitality—all on a whim. All because of mere insults—perceived or otherwise. You are no true Venator,” she sneered.

  “Do you mean to say as a Venator, you have no right to protect yourself from other mortals—only from the undead? Would you have me believe that is true of you, Macey Gardella? You’re a smart broad, doll, so don’t let me hear you say otherwise.”

  “You call this protecting yourself?” Her hand jerked violently toward the dining table bloodbath. “Not one of those men lifted a hand to you.”

  “You know nothing,” roared Capone. “You don’t know my bizness, and you don’t know what those men would have done to me if I hadn’t stopped them. Do you know how many sniper shots have been taken at me? How many bullets I’ve dodged? Do you know how many of your precious mortals have been caught in the crossfire because someone wanted to kill me? I have to protect myself.”


  “And why is that?” she retorted. “Because of your greed, your desire for power. Because you break the law, because you take advantage of women and sell them as prostitutes, you open gambling houses so the weak-minded will lose their money over and over while drinking your illegal beer—and you encourage half of Chicago to break the law and drink themselves into the gutter.”

  “Listen to me, Macey Gardella,” he snarled, leaning close enough that she could smell the garlic rolling off his breath. “I provide a service to dose people. Prohibition ain’t keeping no one from imbibing but those damned Temperance people—hell, you know everyone in Congress has their own suppliers on hand. Even the Prohibition agents like their beer and whiskey. But everyone knows, dey walk into one of my places, dey ain’t gonna get no damn wood alcohol. They ain’t gonna die because they want a drink and someone serves ’em up any damned ethanol. My beer, my liquor—it’s a service and it saves lives because people trust my products. It’s about regulation, Macey. Someone’s gotta manage the illegal trade, or more people will die.”

  Macey could only shake her head. “That’s a poor excuse. You’re still breaking the law. You’re still thumbing your nose at the authorities—”

  “Thumbing my nose? What the hell are you talking about—the damned police chief calls me. I ain’t callin’ him. He’s the one sucking my cock, coming to me, wantin’ my help because he knows without me and my network, my boys—well, Chicago would be a lot more dangerous place. And I ain’t just talking about the undead.”

  “You sure aren’t. Do you even remember you’re supposed to be hunting the undead? When do you have time to slay vampires when you’re running your business empire?” she sneered. The fact that she shared a family legacy—a vocation to fight the malevolent, demonic undead—with the most greedy and powerful crime boss in Chicago, no matter how he protested otherwise, made her ill. Worse, it made her question the very world into which she’d been drawn by Sebastian Vioget and Chas Woodmore less than a year ago. “When’s the last time you bothered to actually kill a vampire? To actually fulfill your family legacy?”

  “You’re funny, Macey Gardella. You’re a funny, loudmouthed, sassy broad, and I like dat in a woman—don’t tell my Mae. But I don’t like women who pretend to be dumb when they ain’t. The first time we met, at Da Palmer—you know damned well I was wearin’ undead ash on my suit. Don’t pretend you didn’t smell it, and see my stake. Had I known then who you were, you’d’a never left that back room without me.”

  “So you actually bestirred yourself to stake a vampire a few weeks ago. Why—was he planning to open a competitive dance club? Had he succeeded in booking Satchmo for an appearance before you did?”

  Capone laughed heartily, his fury suddenly gone. “Dammit, doll, we’re gonna have fun together, you and me.” He pulled out a handkerchief to mop his damp face.

  “That is about as unlikely as Nicholas Iscariot walking into a church.”

  He was still laughing, but then he sobered and tucked the hanky back into his coat. “You ain’t got no right to hold judgment on me, baby doll. That’s for the Good Lord to do—and He seen fit to give me a vis bulla, and there ain’t no one else on dis earth who’s got the right to say I ain’t doing my duty. Do you know how much money I give to the poor? Do you have any idea how many meals, how many coats and shoes and homes I’ve given to those in need? And you ain’t got no idea how many lives I’ve saved doin’ what I do, stoppin’ violence from happenin’. You ain’t got no right to judge whether I’m worthy to wear the amulet or not. That ain’t your place, and you’d best remember it.”

  “I won’t kill for you,” she said coldly. “I won’t murder people. Anyone. I don’t care how you threaten me.”

  “We’ll see about that. But for now, you just wait till I need you. You live in all this luxury, and you wear fine clothes and you eat my food, and you listen to some good jazz music—that’s a good idea, that, getting Satchmo back up here from N’Orleans—and you wait till I say. Because our fates are intertwined, doll, and there ain’t no way around that.”

  It was all she could do to keep her face blank and her eyes from welling with furious, frustrated tears. She was trapped here with Capone—trapped in his world.

  I was meant to fight against evil. And now I must fight to protect it.

  THREE

  ~ The Lonely Life of a Venator ~

  Al Capone controlled his empire—and pretty much the entire city of Chicago when he was in residence—from Suite 430 at the Lexington Hotel.

  The first time Macey had occasion to visit Capone’s luxurious space, she’d barely noted its splendor and amenities. She’d been exhausted, wounded, and heartsick when she arrived and found Sebastian Vioget beaten, bound, and ready to sizzle in the sun on the penthouse patio. The only thing on her mind then was getting them both out of Capone’s clutches safely.

  But over the last five months, since Big Al brought her to the bloody dinner in Cicero, Macey had become all too familiar with the man’s Chicago headquarters. Every time she passed through the hotel lobby, she encountered the gangster’s lieutenants—who of course had no idea she was anything other than a simpering moll who enjoyed the clothes and food Capone provided. There were armed guards at every elevator entrance as well, and though each of them knew her by name and sight, not one of them realized she was stronger, faster, and surely more intelligent than any of them—.45-caliber revolvers notwithstanding.

  The closer one got to the heartbeat of Capone’s enterprise inside the Lexington, the more bodyguards there were. And once she crossed the threshold into the infamous Suite 430, she had to take care to avoid the numerous padlocked canvas bags stacked around the room—each one holding untold amounts of cash—waiting to be taken to the bank. No wonder he didn’t want anything to do with counterfeiters—he had enough cash he didn’t need to print his own.

  It boggled her mind how much money the gangster known as Snorky made. And that he really did donate a significant amount to the poor—including serving a huge Easter feast for anyone in need.

  Regardless, the last few months had done nothing to change her opinion of the gangster, Robin Hood gestures notwithstanding.

  “Baby doll,” Al greeted her. “Are you ready for tonight?”

  He sat, heavy and solid, behind a desk strewn with papers, a half-empty plate of pasta, and a glass of wine. His dark hair was slicked back, and his clean-shaven face nestled on a short, thick neck into the collar of his tailored shirt and suit coat. The ever-present eleven-carat diamond winked from his middle finger. One of the other gals who hung around Capone had told Macey it was worth fifty thousand dollars.

  “Unfortunately, yes,” she replied, wandering past a table with an open copy of the Tribune.

  She paused, carelessly scanning the newspaper headlines. Fateful Iroquois Theatre to Reopen as The Oriental read one of the stories. Third Body Disappears from City Morgue was another; Two Dead Near Meat-Packing Plant, and Explosion Near Hyde Park Leaves Two Injured proclaimed the state of crime in the city. And the Louis Armstrong at The Music Castle Tonight—Courtesy Big Al story had a large photo of Capone and the famous jazz player shaking hands.

  And then she saw it—what she was looking for, but despised herself for doing so—beneath the two-column, two-inch story Houdini Will Return to Chicago.

  J. Grady.

  Macey exhaled and turned away. He was still in Chicago, still writing, likely still investigating. Still alive.

  Irritated with herself for caring, Macey spun and moved to the French doors that led to a low-walled patio overlooking Chicago. She’d hardly been outside the Lexington, except with Capone, for months.

  “It’ll be a treat to see you all gussied up tonight, doll,” Capone commented, his pencil making a scratching sound as he scrawled something over a stack of papers. “Your first time out in da public eye and all.”

  She held back a scathing comment with effort. Like she gave a shake about going out in the public eye. She swal
lowed, her throat dry and her insides empty despite the excellent minestrone and lasagna she’d recently eaten. This is not what I thought I’d be doing when I said yes to Wayren and Sebastian.

  I didn’t expect to be alone.

  And confused.

  “And make certain you look perfect tonight,” Al added firmly, setting down his pencil. “Snorky is never seen without the most beautiful and attentive women on his arm. It would ruin my reputation to be out with a sour-faced broad.”

  Macey turned from the French doors. “Why do you require my attendance tonight? Surely you don’t fear any vampires making their way into the heavily guarded Music Castle when there are so many other venues with victims ripe for the plucking. And Iscariot would never be so bold as to show his face.” Nicholas Iscariot was, understandably, the only vampire Capone truly feared.

  Macey herself had had a taste of the malevolence of the son of the very first vampire—Judas Iscariot—in the back of a limousine only a few months ago. Too often she still had nightmares reliving Nicholas Iscariot’s knife slicing open her dress, leaving her torso bare to the vampire’s needle-sharp fangs and lascivious mouth while two other undead held her immobile. There was still the faintest scar ringing her left areola, and one right down along her sternum.

  Until today, her duties to Capone over the last few months had only required her to attend private meetings that happened or would last after sunset in unsecured locations. And, occasionally, she’d attended him in this very suite of rooms. There’d been once she’d staked a vampire waiting in an alley outside one of his meetings. And there’d been a time when she’d sensed one sneaking through the back stairwell of the Lexington and introduced him to the point of her stake. But those and the few other incidents in which her skills had been needed had been mild and—well, boring.

  Fortunately, thus far he’d not expected her to provide other, more intimate services. He seemed devoted to his wife Mae, and from what Macey heard from the other gals who hung around, none of them had been required to warm his bed either.