“What are you doing here?” Macey glanced at the door. Capone might sense the presence of an undead, and who knew what he would do then? “What do you want?”
“This cloche, for one!” Flora tugged the tight boiled-wool hat down over her head and admired herself in the mirror. It was one of Cookie’s creations, a mustard color with bright orange and red flowers and a swirl of aubergine feathers on one side. “This looks much better on me than it would on you, Mace. Can I have it?”
“Why are you here?” Macey said from between clenched teeth. She considered setting down her stake, but thought better of it. The brick of ice at the back of her neck reminded her to stay on her guard.
Flora snatched off the hat and gave her a venomous side-eye look. Macey was taken aback by the expression there, but then it disappeared so quickly she wondered if it had just been a natural part of Flora’s undeadness or a trick of the light.
“What did you do to Iscariot?” She flounced over and sat on the bed, disregarding the blood-red gown Macey had just laid out.
“Why do you ask?”
Flora huffed, and her eyes flashed red for a moment. “He was determined to get you before, but now he’s really got a bang on for you. I’ve never—well, no one’s ever seen him so furious. His face is all marked up too. So what did you do?”
Her emotions warring between satisfaction and apprehension, Macey walked over to the window and looked out over Chicago. Somewhere he was out there…waiting for her. Would she be as lucky the next time they met? Would he be as lucky the next time?
She set her jaw grimly. No, he wouldn’t. Not if she had anything to say about it. She tightened her grip on the stake.
“Why are you really here, Flora? You said you wanted me to help you, but then you attacked a man that night and left him for dead in the alley. You fed on him—and who knows how many other innocent people.”
“A gal has to eat. Even a vampire gal!”
Macey turned to stare down her friend. “Sebastian Vioget is a vampire and he hasn’t ever—in more than a century—fed on a mortal. If you truly wanted my help, you can start by doing that—and by not killing people.” Macey kept her voice calm with effort.
Flora’s expression turned from petulant to hopeful. “Can you help me, then? Do you know how? Can you reverse this—this thing?” She waved a hand at herself.
“Definitely not unless you change your ways. And even then I don’t know.”
“Then what’s the point?” Flora stood suddenly, and her fangs shot out. Her eyes blazed red. “Why should I even try to change if there’s no reason to?”
“Why?” Macey felt a stab of pain deep inside. Flora didn’t understand, and whether it was the real Flora speaking—the friend she’d loved—or the undead one, she didn’t know. It didn’t matter. Hopelessness washed over her. “Because it’s the right thing to do. Not to kill people. Not to hurt them.”
“But you do it.” Flora sashayed across the room and began to flick through the dresses hanging in Macey’s closet. “You slay vampires, you beat them up, you burn their faces—yes, I can tell that’s what happened to Nicholas—and you get to dress like a rich woman to boot!” She spun, her eyes like fire-pit coals. Her fangs shone, lethal and longer than Macey had ever seen them. “You stake a vampire and you send him or her to hell. Every time, Macey. You are judging and sentencing them to damnation whenever you use that stake. So what makes you so much better, so much different than me? I at least chose to be this way. You—well, your abilities were given to you. Just like all these clothes, and all of this.”
Macey could hardly breathe. The back of her throat burned and the fingers clasping her stake suddenly felt large and clumsy. Black shadows threatened to obliterate her vision. “Get out of here.”
Flora looked as if she were about to argue, perhaps even to attack…but then she changed. Her eyes returned to their normal cornflower color, her fangs retracted, and the fury ceased rolling off her. “Aw, Macey…”
“Leave. And never come here again.” Macey thrust a hand out, pointing to the door. She had to work very hard to keep it from shaking, but she managed it for the most part.
Flora gave her one last inscrutable look. It was not angry nor regretful nor pleading. It was as if she were trying to read Macey’s mind. “Whatever you say.”
Flora clomped to the door and went through, slamming it behind her. Macey hurried over to watch through the peephole and make certain she left…and once Flora entered the elevator, Macey drew in a long, deep breath. She was shaking a little, from fury as well as regret. Then suddenly, she bolted to her feet and snatched up the telephone.
“Watch for a tall, slender, redheaded woman with lots of freckles. She’s coming off the north elevator in a few minutes. Don’t talk to her or say anything to her; I just want to make sure she leaves,” Macey said once she was put through to the security team in the main lobby. “And look to see where she goes. What direction.”
“She’s here, Miss Denton,” replied the guard, Joey. “Just comin’ off the elevator. I seen her come in earlier, too, all huddled under an umbrella, though it ain’t even raining out. I’ll see where the broad goes and call you back.”
Macey hung up the phone and sank onto the bed next to her mussed-up red frock. Flora’s accusations rang in her mind.
You are judging and sentencing them to damnation whenever you use that stake.
It was true.
But it was her calling. Her family legacy.
The telephone rang, its shrill brringg-brringg cutting through the stillness. Macey answered it and listened while Joey told her that Flora left the way she’d come: covered in a long coat and beneath an umbrella. Alone, and without any sort of transportation waiting nearby.
Something shimmered deep inside Macey as she set the telephone receiver back on its cradle. Her eyes were damp and she blinked hard, then scrubbed at them to keep the tears at bay.
Macey turned back to the bed and picked up the glitzy red dress. At any other time, she would have swooned over its beauty. The fabric and its beading fairly burned like light shining through one of Capone’s beloved Chiantis. But tonight, the frock represented an ugly compromise of her beliefs. A scarlet letter of her own making, so to speak.
She pulled on an opaque satin slip that covered her from breasts to mid-thigh and hugged her curves like a second skin. Then her garters and stockings—tonight, shimmery black ones that rolled up over her knees. And finally the frock itself, that sheer, lightweight bit of fabric that floated around her body like a breeze. The weight of beaded cuffs and the flame designs over the front of the bodice as well as along the handkerchief hem helped the flimsy tunic hang properly.
Macey was just finishing with last-minute accessories—a bejeweled headband, gloves, stakes, and her silver cross—when her escort knocked on the door.
She flung it open without checking the peephole, and there stood Chas.
SEVENTEEN
~ An Evening of Glitter and Glitz ~
“What the hell are you doing here?” Chas demanded as he pushed his way into the apartment. And just as Flora had done only a short while earlier, he stopped and stared, as his gaze swept the place.
“I live here,” Macey snapped. “What’s your excuse?” She grabbed her pocketbook. Just what I don’t need. What is he doing here? How did he even get in? “I’m going to be late. I don’t have time to—”
He grabbed her by the arm and swung her around roughly. “What is going on, Macey? What are you doing back here?”
“Leave your hands off me.”
“That’s not what you said last night.” He bared his teeth in a humorless grin, still holding her by the arm.
“Is that why you’re here?” she retorted, ignoring the heat that rushed to her cheeks. She didn’t try to pull away; she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “Can’t get on without me, Chas?”
“I can get on without you fine, lulu. It’s the rest of the world, God help them, who needs you
. Not the bastard who’s giving you all this.” He swept an arm around in an angry motion. “You have a job to do—or have you forgotten, now that you’re living in the lap of luxury?”
“How many times do we have to have this conversation? And let go of me,” she said, considering using the big square heel on her black-and-red shoes to make her point…right on top of his toes. “How did you get in here, anyway? Capone’s got the place guarded like Fort Knox.”
Chas shrugged and released her none too gently. Macey resisted the urge to rub her arm, which smarted from his obnoxious grip.
“I didn’t have any weapons on me, and I was delivering a hat to you. They searched the hatbox—thorough blokes, they are. I left it in the hall, by the way. But from the looks of it, you don’t need any more hats.” His tone was filled with sarcasm and fury.
“Fine. Thanks. Well, gotta run. I’m leaving now.”
“I need you tonight—”
“What? Look, Chas, what happened last night was—”
“I don’t mean that, dammit,” he said. “I need you to do your job. Tonight. There’s something brewing out there—something’s going on—and I can’t keep up with all the undead in this town on my own.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to make a sharp comment about if he didn’t feel the need to sleep with every vampire he staked, he probably could—but she thought better of it. No need to hurt him too. So, instead of lashing out like part of her wanted to, Macey calmed herself a little and said, “I can’t tonight, Chas. I have to go to the Art Institute.”
Maybe it was her tone, for his response was more controlled as well. “With Capone?” Nevertheless, his teeth were gritted and his Gypsy eyes flashed with anger. “You have to be on his arm while there’s work to be done, protecting his fat ass—when he could do it himself if he tried.”
Macey shook her head, curling her fingers, then relaxed them and exhaled. She might as well tell him the truth. “Grady’s going to be there. Capone made it clear if I didn’t come, something would happen…to him. To Grady. I actually tried to resign today, to leave him for good, and that’s when he pulled this out of his hat.”
There was a beat of silence. Chas’s lips pursed and he shook his head. His expression was black. “You can’t keep allowing him to do this to you. There are too many vampires in Chicago, and too many deaths because of them. Haven’t you been reading the papers?”
“What am I supposed to do, Chas? Let Capone kill an innocent man?”
“There are a helluva lot more than one innocent person who are dying every night at the hands and fangs of the undead. You need to do your job.”
She clenched her jaw. “Not tonight, Chas. I’ll figure something out. But not tonight.”
His face set like stone, he turned away. “You’re a fool, Macey. You’re making a big mistake.” Those were the last words he said before he slammed the door behind him.
She swore, blinked back tears of anger and frustration, and grabbed her pocketbook. Just one more night. I’ll figure out something tomorrow.
Resolved and resigned, Macey left her rooms. She rode the elevator down to the lobby of the Lexington and arrived only moments before Capone did.
He gave her a smooth smile, which she returned with a cold glare.
This is it. This is the last night I walk by your side.
Now that she knew the prophecy didn’t apply to Capone, there really was no reason to hang around, being pinned by his mobster thumb. She just had to extricate herself from him without putting Grady at risk.
The Art Institute was closed to the public at this time of night, but open to those who had the social cachet—or the means to buy a ticket—to attend the gala. As such, the affair was a formal one, with top hats and tailcoats everywhere, snowy white bib shirts, waistcoats, pristine bow ties, and glittering evening gowns of every hue. Jewels shone everywhere: affixed to headbands, combs, wrists, throats, and even on long necklaces that hung nearly to the navel of its wearer. The men wore gems and other shiny accessories in their cufflinks, chunky rings, and in jet, silver, or gold beads on the spats covering their shoes.
Macey could safely say she’d never been in the company of so much wealth and power, nor so much net worth of jewelry and fashion. She wasn’t an expert by any means, but at least two of the gowns she saw were likely Worth originals, imported from Paris.
If she hadn’t been struggling with a riot of emotions—guilt, anger, and impatience—she might have enjoyed the sights and experience.
The bright flashbulbs from the press blinded her as she and Capone climbed the short side steps to the Art Institute in the company of other well-dressed attendees. Did that mean she’d be gracing the front of the papers again tomorrow, on the arm of the most feared man in Chicago? Damn.
That made her even more determined this would be the last time she was photographed with him. She firmly extricated herself from his grip in her arm, easing back to place a comfortable distance from him as he jovially greeted everyone from the institute director to the mayor to a Vanderbilt to Washington Porter—the man responsible for supplying most of Chicago’s fresh fruit.
Capone’s glad-handing gave Macey the opportunity to stroll along and admire some of the woodcut prints of spring landscapes in Japan, and to observe the layout of the gala.
In keeping with the theme of the evening, the high-ceilinged, windowless gallery in which the exhibit was displayed had been decorated in a minimalist Japanese fashion. Single fresh branches from cherry trees, likely cut today in the prime of their blooming season, stood in tall, elegant black vases and released a lovely fragrance to each passerby. Plain tapestries in the blues and violets often mirrored in Utagawa Hiroshige’s landscapes hung on the walls behind some of the framed prints. Silks of blue were draped over tables, cascading in smooth swaths like waterfalls to end in elegant pools on the floor. The servers were dressed in traditional Japanese kimonos, and each wore an ink-black wig sporting the gender-appropriate hairstyle. They carried trays with shrimp cocktails on tiny picks, small seaweed rolls, and rice balls, as well as small fried dumplings.
Instead of spirits and wine, the official beverage being served was hot tea in small, handle-less cups. The waiters lifted short, flat iron-cast pots to pour the fragrant green tea in an elegant stream before offering a steaming cup to each guest.
Though the tea was the official drink, there were plenty of dim corners where the furtive glint of bottle or flask could be seen.
Despite noticing all of these details with interest, Macey simply couldn’t relax and partake of the festivities. She was too busy waiting for the back of her neck to get cold—which would actually be a relief, she freely admitted, for she knew how to deal with that—and both dreading and anticipating the possibility that she would encounter Grady.
When it happened, however, she wasn’t expecting it.
She was at Hakone, admiring the vibrant hues of the elegant, arched green mountains overlooking the subtle shades of blue ocean, when the back of her bare neck prickled with awareness. Not with undead awareness, but with something far more potent.
She didn’t have to turn to know it was Grady standing behind her. But when she did turn, her palms damp and her insides a basket of butterflies, she wasn’t prepared to encounter Grady and the young blond woman standing there with him.
“Miss Denton,” he said in a detached voice. “I thought that was you. I noticed your companion’s arrival, and assumed that would be you on his arm, though there were so many cameramen taking photographs I couldn’t see your face. But it appears I was correct.”
His voice was cool and detached, but his eyes…they were not. Oh, not by a long shot. They were a dark, wild blue, hot and probing as they caught her gaze. She found it difficult to look away, even more difficult to form words. What was that storming through his eyes? Anger? Accusation? Disgust?
Relief?
When she finally broke the connection, her attention bounced around to take in Grady’s whole
person: his unruly cocoa-brown hair, combed back neatly except for a tiny curl flipping up behind his ear; the crisp black tuxedo jacket that made his shoulders look broader than ever; the pristine white bowtie, shirt, and textured white-on-white waistcoat; the faint ink stain on his hand that indicated he’d recently been taking notes—even here, during this formal occasion.
Macey dragged her eyes away and was doing her best to find something to say when Grady rescued her—so to speak. “Pardon me for my lapse. Miss McCormick, meet Miss Denton. She’s an associate of Mr. Capone’s.”
The venom in his voice when he said “associate” took Macey by surprise. It felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach; painful and as if she couldn’t snatch in a good breath.
Grady continued, “Miss Denton, please meet Miss Carol McCormick. The Colonel—er, my boss—is her cousin, in case you hadn’t guessed.” He smiled at his companion, whose hand was linked to his arm, and she smiled up in return. How cozy. Macey couldn’t help but notice there wasn’t a trace of the Irish in his tone tonight. Instead, they were stilted and formal, as if he were taking care with each word or syllable.
“The pleasure is mine,” replied Miss McCormick, bestowing the same warm, open smile on Macey. Apparently, she was oblivious to the undercurrents between her escort and Macey—or she was simply gracious enough to be able to ignore them.
Or perhaps there weren’t any undercurrents at all and Macey was exaggerating them in her own mind.
Which, really, would be the very best thing that could happen, she realized suddenly.
In fact…determination and relief took hold of her. This was the best thing that could happen. Capone could no longer use Grady as a threat to Macey if she didn’t care a fig for him—and vice versa.
And tonight would be her chance to demonstrate that to Big Al. To finally sever the ties, so to speak.
“And mine,” Macey managed to say. Now her smile was genuine, but when she transferred her attention to Grady, she made her expression turn cool and remote.
Roaring Shadows Page 15
