Thus it was no surprise she wasn’t anticipating the act of stepping into the cold concrete room nestled in the basement of a building adjacent to the police station. For obvious reasons, she’d waited until well past midnight to leave Capone’s Lexington Hotel suite to venture into this morbid chamber.
Big Al had been less than pleased with her disappearance from The Music Castle during the Louis Armstrong performance, a fact which he subtly reminded her by adding several new photographs—framed, of course—to the gallery of what she’d begun to think of as hostages to her good behavior. So when he’d blandly suggested tonight was the night to finish off the undead Danny Fanalucci, who’d been trapped in a state between undeath and death thanks to the silver bullet lodged in his chest, Macey had thought of Clara and Mandy and Grady and had no choice but to agree.
The subterranean corridor was lit by exactly two lights: one at the bottom of the stairwell, and another halfway to the entrance of her destination. The hallway could use a sweep, but there weren’t any cobwebs, nor did she encounter any sign of mice or rats or other creatures. As she drew closer to the morgue, Macey felt the eerie chill settle over the back of her neck. Fanalucci was definitely still present.
County Morgue was painted on the frosted glass window of the door. She used the key Capone had given her, and the unlocked knob felt cold and uninviting when she closed her fingers around it.
The space was dark and still, and the back of her neck prickled with the awareness of an undead. The room smelled of death—though, being from mortals, it was a different scent than the repulsive one that clung to the undead or their ash—accompanied by the pungent aromas of chemicals and industrial alcohol (which was still legal, of course). There was a sharp, biting scent she couldn’t identify, and also a damp, earthy essence.
Ashes to ashes…dust to dust.
Perhaps some of the corpses here were already beginning to decompose, ready to rejoin the earth.
Dead bodies were brought to the morgue to be officially identified, then kept until they were retrieved by family or taken to the funeral home. In some cases, a corpse might be examined in order to determine cause of death.
The place was dead silent. Macey smiled grimly at her private joke—surely it wasn’t the first time someone had said or thought it—and pushed the light switch. There were no windows in the eerie room, so no one would come to investigate the midnight illumination.
The walls and floor were unpainted concrete. Columns of forbidding metal doors lined one wall, stacked three on top of each other and four across. Those would be the body drawers, on which each corpse could be rolled out on a morbid tray. There were also four so-called slabs, or tables, lined up in the room—each one a steel tabletop mounted on a massive lever in the floor that raised, lowered, or tilted the body as necessary. Only one was currently empty.
Aware of the insistent chill on her neck, Macey glanced at the three sheet-covered bodies that adorned slabs. Might as well start there. She slid the stake from its mooring beneath her dress and approached the first corpse, whose toes were uncovered on the foot sporting a tag. Guernsey, T.
The second toe tag read Fenilworth, B., and the third bare foot was clearly that of a woman.
She turned to the wall of drawers and noted they were labeled on the exterior, which should make it easy to find…ah, yes. Fanalucci, D. Middle drawer, third column.
When she pulled it out, the drawer gave a low, protesting groan, adding to the atmosphere. Macey eased the sheet down to his shoulders and looked at Danny Fanalucci’s body with curiosity. He certainly appeared dead. His skin was a pale grayish-blue and his eyes were closed. He wasn’t breathing, and there was no sign of a pulse in his throat. She lowered the sheet to his belly, unmoved by the thick, dark hair that grew over shoulders, arms, chest, and abdomen.
The gunshot wound was in the right side of his chest, probably puncturing a lung but not lodging in his heart—as her stake would soon do. The hole was dark and deep, and she wondered how far into his organs and tissue the bullet had penetrated (she wasn’t about to turn him over to see if there was an exit) and whether, if it were somehow dislodged, Danny Fanalucci would spring to life—fangs and glowing red eyes and all.
She had to give Big Al credit. This was a brilliant way to get rid of vampires without drawing attention to the fact that they were being slain—and without drawing the attention of the general populace to the fact that the undead walked among them.
Something stirred the air, and Macey looked up from her examination of the wound. The hair on the backs of her arms prickled with warning.
Nothing seemed amiss, and yet…
She straightened, tightening her grip on the stake. Rotating in a slow circle, she looked around the room, listening, feeling…waiting.
Something was wrong. Something…
The lights shuddered, then dimmed, but remained lit in a dull golden glow. An awful chill rushed over her neck and shoulders, surging through her body as if she’d been thrown into the deepest, coldest part of Lake Michigan. Macey could hear her own breath—strong, measured—and felt her heartbeat pounding steadily…
She became aware of another presence. Someone—or something—approaching.
Another strong heart pounding, somehow melding with the rhythm of her own…and another breath, fighting to merge with hers…
She remained very still, standing in the burnished glow of a room as the ugly chill settled over her, permeating her skin through to her bones and muscles…
The lights went out, plunging the room into full darkness. Macey made no sound, though terror shuttled through her. For at last, she’d recognized the sensation.
She’d felt it once before, on the most terrifying night of her life.
When the door opened, a sliver of light spilled into the morgue, surrounding the tall, angular figure standing on the threshold and obstructing the details of his face. All she could see was his black hair, ruthlessly parted and combed close to his scalp. It gleamed richly, as if it were wet paint.
“Macey Gardella. What a pleasant and unexpected surprise,” said Nicholas Iscariot in his too-smooth voice. He stepped into the room, and his long, slender hand moved in the vicinity of the light switch. The bulbs popped on with audible reluctance, barely illumining from dull orange to a mellow golden glow. She had the impression he hadn’t actually touched the switch.
“Isn’t the very nature of a surprise, that it’s unexpected?” Macey managed to find her voice. And by God, her words were rock steady. “And in my case, it’s most certainly not a pleasant one.” Her fingers around the stake had become numb with tension, yet through her shock and terror, Macey focused on a beacon of clarity and determination.
Her heart still beat in its own rhythm despite his powerful pulse fighting to control it. No. She wouldn’t allow it. Never again.
Iscariot closed the door with a dull thud. “A pedantic Venator. How amusing. Although one shouldn’t be surprised, for of course, the first time we met was when you worked at the library. You were utterly naive and innocent then, weren’t you?”
Macey took care not to look him in the eye, or even near his face. She kept her attention focused over the corner of Iscariot’s left shoulder. Two of the sheet-covered slabs were all that separated her from the most powerful vampire in the world—the son of the man who’d been the first of Lucifer’s immortal, half-demon creations: Judas Iscariot.
She knew with a sudden, stark clarity that only one of them would leave this room alive. A rush of fear shuttled through her, and she went cold with terror. Ruthlessly, she beat back the weakness and replaced it with determination. She would win.
He should be just as terrified of her, just as wary and on edge as she. For Macey was the daughter of Max Denton. She carried the blood of the great Victoria Gardella and the incomparable Max Pesaro.
It was her destiny to put an end to Nicholas Iscariot. That was the meaning of Rosamunde’s prophecy. She was certain of it.
And the prophecies…it was imperative they were fulfilled.
Though Iscariot had taken her off guard, this time she wasn’t outnumbered. And she wasn’t confined in the small space of an automobile, held down by countless hands…
“In light of the stake in your hand, I can only suppose you’ve come to finish off Fanalucci,” Iscariot said, moving toward the open drawer. “It’s a clever stunt—using silver bullets.” He looked at her sharply, and Macey almost got caught in his lethal gaze. A shimmer of softness teased at the edge of her consciousness, and she pushed it away. “Surely that wasn’t your idea.”
Interesting. Did he not know about Capone?
“In light of your unwanted presence, I can only suppose you’ve come to identify the body…before I dust it to ash,” she replied evenly. “Make it quick, Nicholas. I haven’t got all night.”
He looked at her. His thin lips flattened into a small smile. “You weren’t so bold the last time we had occasion to meet, Macey Gardella. I find I like this aspect of you much better than the sniveling, shivering, fainting girl you were then.”
She measured the distance and height of the sheet-covered slab between her and Iscariot. If she launched herself over the body then levered herself to the right—
“I don’t think so,” murmured Iscariot. Suddenly he whirled…and was gone.
It was impossible—but he was there, and then in an instant, he wasn’t—he was over there, and Macey spun to find him standing behind her, on the other side of the room. Had he flown? Cold shuddered through her. How could she fight a vampire who flew? Who could turn lights on and off at will?
The empty slab cut through the space between them, but Iscariot was closer than he’d been a moment before. She could smell him…a sort of earthy, oily, dark smell that made her insides churn.
“Do you feel it?” he said in a low, lisping voice. “I know you can feel it…you can feel me.” His eyes glowed bright—a strange combination of red ringed with cobalt blue. They caught her unawares and tugged…as if a hook pierced her belly and reeled her closer.
Her breathing clogged, and her vision softened at the edges… She felt it happening, and fought, fought…
Iscariot chuckled, low and gritty, and Macey curled her fingers around the stake, around the edge of the empty slab next to her. She held tightly, focusing on the cold metal, the smooth wood, her feet planted on the floor… No.
“Macey,” he whispered. “I remember…do you?”
She struggled to blink her eyes, to close them against those twin beacons of red flame eclipsed by bright, burning blue…mesmerizing, lulling, and luring…
Suddenly, she felt a stinging pain down the front of her torso, from breastbone to belly. She clapped a hand to her abdomen as the scar he’d left with the tip of a knife throbbed and burned in reminder of that terrifying night. Fear shuttled through her again, fighting to overcome her determination.
“I see you do remember, my lovely Venator. The blood of Max Pesaro runs in your veins…and I’ve tasted it. Do you remember? Oh, yes, I see how well you remember…” He smiled, and Macey felt another sharp pain streaking around the front of her left breast.
She shuddered, her knees buckling, her breath thick and slow, but she caught herself at the edge of the metal table, gripping it as if the slab was an anchor. Her veins pulsed and surged as if responding to his thrall. The pain slicing down her torso stung and burned, and she was aware of blood dampening her frock in a long, thin line right down the center and around her left areola. It was as if Iscariot was pulling the life force from her with every beat of her pulse…tug, surge, tug, surge… Softly, gently, incessantly.
“It’s unbelievably perfect, isn’t it, my lovely Venator, that I should be so fascinated by the progeny of the man with whom my sister Lilith was obsessed. And that I should be the one to destroy both father and daughter of that selfsame legacy.”
Father. Legacy.
The words penetrated Macey’s fog, and in that instant, something changed. Determination edged back blind fear. The metal slab felt more firm, her grip less desperate.
“You killed my father.” The words came from far off, dreamlike, but they came nevertheless. And with them, the stake became more solid in her grip. Her feet rooted more sturdily on the concrete floor. “And my mother.” The foggy edge of her vision turned clearer. Her mind latched on to fury in the place of susceptibility.
The tips of his fangs showed now. “Oh, yes, Felicia. She was luscious. Quite honestly, nearly as delightful as you—all springlike and fresh, and a little bold on the tongue. But, unfortunately, your mother was merely a mortal. There wasn’t enough of her to…well, for someone such as I to appreciate. And it was all over much too quickly. But it was worth it, lowering myself to partake of her…to see Max Denton destroyed.”
Macey swallowed the bile surging into her throat. Now more than ever she was certain she would slay the repulsive, evil creature smiling at her from across the room. His lips glistened, red and reptilian, and his stark, angular countenance appeared as cold as marble…except for the eyes. They glowed strong and bright, teasing and beckoning Macey…the strength of their thrall wavering at the edge of her vision.
“And yes, I killed your father—but not in the way you imagine, my bold stake-wielder. No…he lives on in his own private Hell: alone, guilt-ridden, empty. But still upon this earth. I suppose he must wish for his death every day, as one does when one loves too deeply and then loses all—simply because of one’s own folly…but I cannot wish him anything other than such a fate.”
Macey went cold and still. “My father is alive?”
This made Iscariot laugh, his eyes squinting closed for a moment. It was a reprieve from that dangerous, insistent gaze. “And so no one has bothered to tell you that, have they? They’ve sent you off to fight their battles, armed with the righteousness of avenging the death of your parents—despite the fact that it’s a lie.” He shook his head. “You poor darling. I almost feel sorry for you.”
“Enjoy your pity while it lasts,” she managed to say. “Because it won’t be long before you’ve joined Lilith the Dark in Hell. And I’m going to be the one to send you there.”
Iscariot smiled, fully displaying his fangs as well as a horribly attractive dimple in his cheek. “One must have dreams, then, mustn’t one? Do you think your father, and Sebastian Vioget, and even Chas Woodmore have not also promised the same? And here I am.” The smile widened. “I have more powers than my sister ever dreamed of…and when I have acquired the Rings of Jubai and the secret they protect in the Pool of Samung, well then…” His laugh was delicate, genteel. “I will, quite literally, rule the world. There will be no more darkness—for me, anyway.”
Iscariot lifted his hand, his fingers curling up like elegant talons. He beckoned for her, the motion smooth and alluring. His nails were long and sharp, and they glinted like mother-of-pearl beads in the dim light. “Come here, Macey Gardella Denton…come to me.” His eyes glowed brighter than ever, like a blazing fire and a flash of blue. “Come.”
She released the metal table that separated them, her hand going to her throat, the stake clattering to the floor at her feet.
She took a step. Then another.
Then another.
His cold, powerful presence wrapped around her, and still she went to him.
TWELVE
~ A Dark Battle ~
“Now, Macey,” Iscariot coaxed. “Come to me. I can smell you, and now I will taste you once more.”
Macey’s fingers curled around the neckline of her dress, tangling in the heavy chain beneath it. She felt the unyielding edge of the empty metal table as she made her way along its length toward him…step by step.
Father. My father is alive.
The words burned in her mind. Our legacy.
Her hand gripped the edge of the table as she came to the end. She was almost to Iscariot, close enough she could feel his heartbeat more strongly…she could see a small mole on his face, see the
way his nostrils flared as he scented her… His eyes were narrowed with anticipation, and his tongue slipped out to moisten those skinny lips, running over the tips of his fangs.
And then she moved: yanked the chain from beneath her frock and simultaneously rammed the table toward him with every bit of strength she owned.
The metal corner caught him in the abdomen just as her large silver cross came into view, tumbling forth to dangle between her breasts. Iscariot’s shocked cry was cut off as the heavy table knocked the breath out of his lungs. He slammed into the wall behind him, doubled over, and shoved the table back.
Macey whirled away, swiping her stake from the floor in a smooth move as her cross bounced and swung as if it yearned to lunge for him itself. By the time she swooped upright, Iscariot had recovered. His eyes were furious: red and blue. His lips were peeled back, revealing long, terrifying fangs. The sight of the cross had paralyzed him, but not for long.
He lunged toward her, and Macey somersaulted over one of the bodies, dislodging it as she landed on the other side of its slab. The corpse tumbled to the ground in a morbid show of stiff limbs, and she barely missed her feet tangling in its sheet.
Iscariot hissed and swiped his long-nailed fingers at her, catching her bare arm across the slab and leaving three long streaks.
Macey gasped at the sudden streak of pain even as she grabbed his arm on the downswing, yanking him toward her. He didn’t expect this, and lost his balance for a moment—but that was all she needed. Macey yanked the cross from her neck and slammed it against his cheek. He screamed, and his flesh sizzled as he twisted away, sending her spinning into the wall. She crashed into the cement block and whirled just in time to see Iscariot leap into the air.
Macey froze as he seemed to hover near the ceiling for an interminable length of time, then suddenly…he was gone. The only thing left was an ugly swirl of black smoke.
She spun wildly, looking in all corners of the room, stake in a death grip, cross in hand, eyes wide. Nothing.
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