Roaring Shadows

by Colleen Gleason

  He managed to keep his demeanor calm despite the riot of emotions charging through him, and firmly uncurled her fingers from his shirt. “Don’t wrinkle the cotton, cher,” he said with a mildness he didn’t feel. “And to answer your question…is Max Denton alive? Not as far as I know.”

  He stepped away from the counter, ostensibly to retrieve a bottle of brandy and two glasses from beneath—but really to put a little distance between the two of them. His gums were swelling, threatening to push out his fangs, and the fact that he seemed to have as little control over them as a pubescent boy would have over an erection didn’t help his mood.

  The glasses made quiet, hard thunks as he set them on the counter. “Why are you asking?” He poured Macey a drink and filled his own halfway, then turned his back on her for a moment to add a generous dollop from the bottle of cow’s blood he kept for his sustenance and sanity. Unfortunately, this particular morning he needed it more for the latter than the former. He turned back, taking a large gulp, as she spoke.

  “I had an encounter with Nicholas Iscariot last night.”

  To Sebastian’s continued consternation, she yanked open the top of her buttoned blouse to reveal a deep vee of cleavage, creamy white skin, the hint of a laced-up undergarment…and a bright red line that disappeared behind said undergarment. There were also two bites on the side of her throat.

  Under normal circumstances, and with pretty much any other female who might have torn open her clothing, Sebastian would have thanked her for such a lovely sight…and would have taken full advantage of the gift.

  Instead, he forced his attention from her exposed skin up to her eyes. “Tell me what happened.” And, surreptitiously, he felt beneath his shirt to touch the vis bulla, pushing away the lingering temptation from his dream, the scent and sight of too much Macey, and focused on the grave matter at hand.

  The shimmer of power from his amulet and the blood-saturated whiskey cleared Sebastian’s head, for which he was immensely grateful. But when Macey told him what happened in the morgue between her and Iscariot, the tension returned—albeit for an entirely different reason. The entire altercation and its implications did not bode well. Nevertheless, he addressed the most pressing item first.

  “If Max Denton is alive, I’m not aware of it. The last I knew, he’d died during the War. But I’m here in Chicago. Your father—and you—are from England, and he spent his time in Europe. I haven’t had much communication from Bellitano—he is the acting Summas Gardella and stays in Rome. I am, so to speak, on my own.”

  Macey seemed to have calmed a little, though her dark Pesaro eyes were still a little wild. “So apparently the person I would need to ask is Wayren.”

  “Good luck with that,” he said with a wry smile. “I haven’t seen her since you received your vis bulla.” He leaned on the counter, keeping a prudent space between them. “But, petit, it is mostly this that concerns me.” He gestured to the red marks on her skin with a surprisingly steady hand. “You say Iscariot didn’t even touch you, and yet you began to bleed from already healed marks? Marks he’d given you.”

  She nodded, yet he could sense the underlying terror she masked well. “It was as if my blood…my veins…stirred at his command. As if he had some sort of magnet or—or draw that made it ooze again. It wasn’t a full rush of blood, as if he’d just cut me. But like whatever had begun to heal broke through. As if I were—or my lifeblood was—enthralled or hypnotized.”

  “And yet you ran him off.” He felt a stab of pride. Macey was, despite the years between them and the complicated, horrifying dreams, the closest thing he would ever have to a daughter or a progeny.

  “It was the cross that did it.” She dug in her skirt pocket and extracted a chain and its palm-sized pendant.

  Even though Sebastian regularly visited a church and wore his vis bulla—and prayed—he couldn’t contain an unexpected shudder at the sight of the ornate silver cross. “Ah yes. Don’t get that too close to me—wait.” He peered at the relic, careful not to get too near. “What’s this on there? This black residue.”

  To his relief, Macey brought the cross closer to her in order to examine it, and he was able to breathe more readily once again.

  “It wasn’t on here before,” she said, frowning as she looked at the ashy substance clinging to the intricate design. “But I did shove it against his face. It probably burned him. Vampire flesh.” She looked up, and now, instead of the terror beneath her gaze, there was satisfaction. “I wonder if he has a permanent mark.”

  “If so,” Sebastian said—suddenly, fiercely grateful their conversation had evolved into something less strained and uncomfortable, “then you both have marked the other. That would be the first time I’ve heard of a Venator marking an undead.”

  Her expression sobered. “But he hasn’t marked me in the same way Lilith the Dark marked Max Pesaro…has he? That permanent connection?”

  Sebastian considered this unpleasant possibility for a moment, then replied, “If your bite marks healed originally, and you haven’t felt him luring you when you weren’t in his presence, then I don’t believe it would be the same sort of connection. But recall, Macey, petit, I haven’t seen you—other than briefly—since your first encounter with Iscariot. I don’t know if your bites were healed properly or not. You have been a little absent.” Bloody hell, he sounded and felt like a father. But that was a much-preferred role than the other portrayed in his nocturnal adventures.

  She arched a brow and gave him a look that reminded Sebastian far too much of Victoria. “They healed. Only a faint scar remained until last night.”

  Before Sebastian could reply, the door from which Macey had entered opened once more and Temple came in. “Well, look who the cat dragged in again,” she said when she saw Macey. “And a good thing you’re here, too.”

  Sebastian saw she was holding a sheaf of papers and watched her long legs eat up the space as she strode across the pub. His usual niggle of minor awareness turned into a stronger sense of interest. Maybe it would help matters if he tapped into what she’d clearly been wanting for some time. At least with Temple, he wouldn’t have to worry about losing his mind…or his soul.

  “Since I haven’t had anything else to do,” Temple said with a pointed look at Macey, whom she was supposed to train and exercise in Venator fighting skills, “I’ve been researching Al Capone’s prophecy.”

  She slid onto a stool, papers crackling as she did so, and caught Sebastian’s eye. He gave her a smile a little warmer than usual, a little longer linger of his gaze, and then said, “And you’ve found something important, then, Temple, cher.”

  “I’ll say.” She caught his gaze and held it for a beat, and her fine brows lifted. Then she shuffled through her papers. “So our friend and colleague Capone thinks ‘the dauntless one’ named in the prophecy is referring to you, Macey. But I’m becoming more certain he’s wrong. The prophecy says, ‘From the deepest bowels of madness and grief shall the dauntless one root.’”

  Temple looked up, stabbing the paper with a smooth, round fingernail. “That doesn’t sound like you at all, sister, because from everything I’ve heard, you were ‘rooted’ in—born from—a solid, loving relationship between Max Denton and his wife Felicia. Neither of them were mad or aggrieved, and even if you look further and wonder if the phrase might be referring to the time after your mother was killed, and your father became grief-stricken and angry, I still don’t believe it makes sense. You were, what, eight years old? Well rooted by that time, if you will. But aside from all of that, if you read further, after Mr. Capone’s favorite foretelling, Rosamunde continues, ‘Upon its unleashing, a root of malevolence shall marshal such power as never before known. It shall permeate far and deep, and only the dauntless one and his peer shall rise up to it.’”

  Temple looked up again, triumph in her expression. “Did you hear that? It clearly says, ‘only the dauntless one and his peer.’ Capone’s got the gender wrong. The dauntless one is a male, not
a female. And…” She yanked out a curling piece of paper, yellowed with age. “When I took a look at the original prophecy here—see, it’s not written in Latin, but in old French—so I’ve no idea if it really is the original—”

  “French would have been Rosamunde’s spoken language, with her being in an abbey and of the nobility,” Macey said, her eyes light with interest. “Only the serfs and peasants spoke English even in England during the Middle Ages.” When Sebastian and Temple looked at her, she gave a self-deprecating smile. “Don’t forget, I’m a librarian. We acquire all sorts of interesting trivia.”

  “Fascinating,” Sebastian said, and meant every syllable. “Go on, Temple. This is quite enlightening.”

  She flashed him a brief smile. “I wondered why Capone would have believed Macey was the dauntless one anyway—or even why he would have thought this applied to our time and not, say, Isabella Gardella’s or even Victoria’s—and so I went back to look at the context and the original writing. Because, as I pointed out, I haven’t had anything else to do but make damned hats with Aunt Cookie,” she added, glaring at Macey again. “And I’m not a fan of needle pricks and discussions about lace and grosgrain. You’re going to tell Al Capone to forget about this prophecy thing, sister, or I’m coming after to drag you home myself.”

  “It’s not that simple,” Macey began, her eyes beginning to flash once more. “It’s not me I’m worried—”

  “Ladies.” Sebastian lifted his hands and gave them his most charming smile, with just a touch of thrall in his eyes. “Let’s remain on topic. I find this all very interesting.”

  Temple grumbled something under her breath that sounded like “keep your damned fangs sheathed,” but returned to the matter at hand. “Whatever you say, bossman. So I was looking at the original French writing and see—look here. The reference to what’s translated as ‘the dauntless one’ is ‘l’intrepid,’ so the article’s gender isn’t obvious—which is the correct way to write it if the noun begins with a vowel, as in this case. But if you look at the way it’s written, that apostrophe hangs low and looks a little like a small ‘a.’”

  She looked up. “Apparently Capone—or whoever translated this prophecy for him—doesn’t know his French, and made a big assumption, which would have been disproved later on, if he’d cared to read that far.” Temple gathered up her papers with a satisfied smile. “Of course, you can argue that the gender is masculine for simplicity’s sake, and it refers to either sex…but if you look at the prophecy that applied to Eustacia Gardella’s death, you will see that isn’t the case. It’s clearly feminine.”

  Sebastian glanced at Macey, who seemed to be just as pleased and impressed with Temple’s scholarship as he was. “Brilliant, cher,” he said.

  “Yes,” Macey said. “Thank you, Temple. I admit I’m more than pleased to know I’m not the dauntless one, who’s going to be facing—what did you say?—the ‘root of malevolence…’ How did the rest of the verse go?”

  “‘The root of malevolence shall marshal such power as never before known. It shall permeate far and deep, and only the dauntless one and his peer shall rise up to it.’”

  “Yes. Right.” Macey’s voice was quiet and subdued, her eyes dark and wide. “And though it doesn’t refer to me, we’re now faced with the obvious question—if it’s not me, who is the dauntless one? And the dauntless one’s peer—which sounds just as ominous. And why does Al Capone believe he’s even involved in the prophecy?”

  “I’m not the dauntless one,” Sebastian said immediately. “And though he stews with his own anger and fury, Woodmore’s not actually mad.” Macey must have heard the regret in his voice, for she choked back a laugh.

  “Don’t look at me, Vioget,” said Temple. “I’m not the least bit dauntless.”

  “There are definitely other words to describe you,” he muttered. “And you aren’t a Venator, anyway.”

  “Praise God for small favors,” she said with heartfelt emotion. “Look, I think Al Capone is all washed up. He’s caught up in his own self-importance—but I didn’t see anything in those pages that indicates the prophecy applies to now. He probably saw the writ somewhere and seized on it without really understanding it. The man might run a bootlegging empire, but he ain’t the sharpest tack in the box.”

  Perhaps Temple was correct…though if anyone were to embody the definition of a root of malevolence, it was Nicholas Iscariot.

  SIXTEEN

  ~ The Web is Spun More Thoroughly ~

  “Where da hell have you been?” Al Capone’s voice was low, shaking with fury and power. His porcine features seemed more puffy than usual—maybe a little too much pasta—and his eyes, though they sparked with anger, were half hidden by fleshy cheeks. His fingers were curled into fists on his cluttered desk and he was half out of his chair. “These disappearances of yours are a habit that stops now, or I’ll put you under house arrest and you won’t be able to take a damned piss without me knowing.”

  Macey wasn’t cowed. She’d faced down a damned vampire prince last night. A mere mortal—no matter how strong—couldn’t beat that. Standing in the center of his office, she put her hands on her hips and fixed him with a cold gaze of her own. “I took care of Danny Fanalucci at the morgue, and at the same time, I had a little run-in with Nicholas Iscariot. It wasn’t a good night and I was in no mood to deal with you, Snorky, so I went and expended my energy elsewhere. I suggest you keep your temper tantrums to yourself.”

  Her pronouncement about Iscariot seemed to have little effect on Capone, but his Brooklyn accent became thicker. “I don’t give a rat’s ass how bad a night you had, toots. You finish a job, you come back here, you report to me by dawn, and you wait for your next assignment. Dat’s how it goes.”

  “I don’t think so. Not anymore.” She stalked across the room to his desk, bracing her hands on top to face him over it just as she had done to Sebastian a few hours ago. “Iscariot says my father is alive. Do you know anything about this?”

  Capone jolted a little, surprise blanching his features. “No, and I wouldn’t believe any damned thing that creature says.”

  She eased back a little, gritting her teeth. “I didn’t think you’d be any help. You can’t even get the damned prophecy correct,” she added under her breath, resisting the urge to throw that in his face.

  Not yet. I’ll save that little fact for later.

  “I’m only here to resign, Al. I’m done being on your payroll. You’re going to have to find another chump to protect you—or get off your fat ass and do it yourself. I’ve got Iscariot to deal with and you’re weighing me down like a big, cumbersome anchor.”

  He didn’t look up at her. Instead, he seemed interested in a newspaper on the desk. “Oh, look here, doll. There’s a big exhibit—some Japanese artist, I can’t even say his name—opening at the Art Institute tomorrow night. Fancy party, they’re calling it a gala. I think I’d better attend.” He shoved the paper toward her. “Read the article. It looks very interesting.”

  “I’m not interested in—” Macey stopped as her gaze landed on the paper. Hiroshige Exhibit to Open with Gala Hosted by Institute Director. But it wasn’t the headline that caught her attention and had her world slowing into something ugly and murky. It was the byline accompanying the article: J. Grady.

  “The Tribune will probably be covering the event,” Capone said lazily, and slid the paper away from Macey’s side of the desk as he settled back into his seat for the first time since she’d entered. He still wasn’t looking at her, but there was a softness to his plump lips that was very close to a satisfied smile.

  Macey turned away, her hands clenched so tightly she felt her fingernails denting her skin.

  “Does that mean you ain’t resigning, then, doll?”

  Her jaw hurt and her insides were in turmoil. Macey was truly caught between the Scylla and Charybdis. She gave him a look over her shoulder filled with loathing. “No, I’m not resigning.”

  His low, complacent chuc
kle followed her as she stalked from the room.

  * * *

  Macey stared listlessly at the closet filled with all the clothing Al Capone had given her. In direct contrast to her mood, everything seemed to sparkle or shimmer. The fabrics were silk, gossamer, velour, and wool. The rich colors varied from blues and violets to reds and burgundies. There were black and white frocks too, but every shade for each article of clothing complemented her coloring.

  A sour bile taste rose in the back of her throat as she yanked out a crimson dress. Might as well dress like the whore I am. The handkerchief-hemmed frock was the color of blood, and it sparkled with tiny red and silver beads in a flamelike pattern over the bodice.

  She was digging ruthlessly through racks of scarves and headpieces when someone knocked on the door of her apartment. With a muttered curse, she glanced at the clock and saw that it was too early for Gus to be calling for her…and at the same moment, she recognized that an ugly tendril of cold had settled over the back of her neck.

  Macey spun, snatching up her nearest stake, and approached the door. She looked through the peephole and her eyes widened with shock.

  Still holding her weapon, she opened the door to one of Capone’s security team, who was standing next to Flora. He had a dull, glazed look in his eyes.

  “Macey, let me in.”

  “Release him first,” she told Flora, gesturing to the security guard, who, thankfully, showed no signs of fang marks.

  Her friend—could she even call her a friend?—did as Macey requested, and as the man stumbled off toward the elevator, Flora stepped into the apartment.

  “Whoa. Nice digs you got here, Macey.” There was admiration tinged with envy in Flora’s voice as she turned in a slow circle, taking in the luxurious surroundings. “Look at all those clothes!”