Roaring Shadows

by Colleen Gleason

  After all, he’d just extended his life—and that of sixty other people. Including Macey, who, by the way, he hadn’t seen since the moment their eyes met as he bolted to his feet next to Betsy, holding aloft the key that had saved the day.

  Admiration, gratitude, and something else had snapped between them in that moment before he was swarmed and swallowed by a mob of hysterically relieved women and gruffly ecstatic men.

  But he hadn’t seen her since.

  Curiously enough…she wasn’t with Capone when the mobster left.

  He retrieved his shoes, stockings, and tuxedo coat, evaded a few more hearty blackslaps and handshakes, and made his exit as quickly as possible. He’d already asked McCormick to arrange a car home for Carol so he could get to work.

  “I’m going to the office,” he told her when she didn’t seem inclined to release his arm, even once they were outside the Art Institute and waiting for her ride to be brought around. She opened her mouth to speak, but he continued with a smile and a shake of the head, “It’s your uncle’s orders—take it up with him. I’ve got a story to write.”

  Grady knew he was safe saying that, for the Colonel would never let his niece stand in the way of a good story—no matter how prettily she begged.

  She did look very pretty, out here with the moonlight gilding her blond hair into something even lighter and more ethereal. And she was gazing up at him with parted lips and soft, admiring eyes, still holding on to his arm.

  So he kissed her. He was a hero, after all. And she clearly wanted to be kissed.

  And he wanted to kiss her. Not so much because she was lovely Carol McCormick gilded in the moonlight, but because of who she wasn’t.

  And when she pushed up close and slipped him a bit of tongue, he was not only surprised but also receptive, kissing her a little more thoroughly, moving his arms a little more tightly around her.

  A shadow moved in his peripheral vision accompanied by a small beam of light. Someone was coming from around the corner, carrying an electric torch. Probably the night watchman. Loath to put Miss McCormick in a compromising position—especially in case her aunt or uncle happened to come upon them, or worse, to hear about it—Grady released her and stepped back, his hand sliding along a bare arm to clasp her fingers.

  The figure with the handheld beacon had become fully visible now, and with a lurch of his belly, he recognized it. Her. Macey.

  She was walking straight toward them, calmly and in a businesslike fashion, directing the torch around on the ground and along the walkway that circumnavigated the building. Of course she had to have seen them kissing, and Grady wasn’t certain what sort of reaction she—or Carol, for that matter—might have in this situation. Proper ladies didn’t generally kiss in public, and there was the whole awkwardness of the fact that he’d been kissing Carol instead of who he really wanted to kiss.

  Ah, dammit to hell.

  But Macey didn’t seem put off at all. “I was looking for clues as to where the thieves went,” she said as she approached. “Thought I might be able to tell which direction they went; I couldn’t have come out more than a few minutes after them.”

  “Good thinking,” he somehow managed to reply. Everyone else seemed to have been more interested in congratulating him or enjoying the fact that they were still alive rather than attempting to chase down the perps. “Er…did you find anything helpful? And I would probably call them would-be murderers instead of merely thieves.”

  She gave him a wry smile. “Quite true. And possibly.” She gave Carol a nod. “Have a nice rest of your evening. The moon is lovely.” And then she moved off into the darkness, clearly continuing on a circuit around the museum.

  Grady didn’t realize he was staring after her until Carol spoke. “Should she be going off by herself like that? In the dark, with would-be murderers around? And why is she looking for clues? Isn’t that something the police should do? Who is that woman anyway?”

  As if to answer her question, the sound of approaching sirens cut through the distance. And just then, Carol’s ride—the Colonel’s private auto—pulled up to the drive below, giving Grady a neat exit from that conversation.

  “I’m off to the Trib,” he said, escorting her down the long flight of narrow steps.

  “Will I see you soon, Jameson?” she asked, looking up at him with an arch smile.

  “I’m sure you will,” he replied, wincing a little at her use of his full name, which always felt so clunky to him, and managed a crooked smile.

  “You were such a hero tonight,” she said—for about the dozenth time. “I’m so proud to know you.”

  He tucked her into the auto, pressed a quick kiss to her forehead, and escaped. An all-nighter would be a welcome distraction.

  And he damned well better get a big byline and a headline above the fold.

  * * *

  Grady was just finishing his final draft of the story when a shadow fell across his desk.

  “It’s coming, it’s coming,” he said without looking up. The Colonel had been breathing down his neck for over an hour, determined to get the story to the typesetters in time for the first edition.

  “Grady, it’s your uncle.”

  He stopped, his body dropping several degrees colder, and looked up. McCormick stood there, a grave look on his face. “Officer Montrose just called. They’ve been looking for you everywhere. You need to go to the hospital immediately.”

  Suddenly feeling as if he’d been submerged in deep, dark, cold water, Grady rose slowly. “What happened?” he managed to say as he looked around dully for his hat and coat, then realized he was still wearing his tuxedo jacket and didn’t have anything else.

  “Some sort of attack; they didn’t give any details except that you needed to come right away. I’ve already called for my car. You shouldn’t be driving in this state and you won’t want to take time to park.”

  “Thank you.” Grady ignored the roaring in his ears long enough to add, “It’s finished.” He gestured to the article, still in the typewriter, then ran from the room.

  He didn’t wait for the elevator, but instead bolted down the stairs, terror swelling in his chest.

  Not you too, Linwood. Don’t die.

  TWENTY-ONE

  ~ A Pile of Consequences ~

  Despite a close, careful circuit around the Art Institute, Macey didn’t find anything that would help track down the direction in which the thieves went. She spent more than an hour poking around in the dark, with only her flashlight and some iffy streetlights to help look for clues. Maybe there’d be something to see in the daylight.

  And all the while, she couldn’t help but think of how brave and clever and skillful Grady had been. Without him, they surely would have been blown to bits. Her heart squeezed and she wished desperately to be able to thank him herself—for saving her, and the rest of them.

  It was nearly one o’clock when she gave up her search for clues, and that was when Macey realized belatedly she wasn’t certain where to go now that she had left Capone’s employ. It also occurred to her that she did have a few things she wanted to retrieve from her rooms at the Lexington, but she didn’t know whether she’d even be allowed entrance.

  Still, as she walked down deserted, moonlit Lake Shore Drive, still dressed in her glitzy red frock and chunky-heeled shoes, she decided to make the attempt. Maybe she’d beat Capone back to the hotel, or maybe he wouldn’t try to stop her. Perhaps she’d put the fear of God into him, as her foster mother Melissa used to say.

  Focusing on that small problem was so much better than remembering Grady and Miss Carol McCormick necking in the moonlight.

  Unexpected and dismaying as the sight had been, it was a good thing, she told herself. A good thing he’d moved on to greener pastures—or, at least, a lot less dangerous pastures. (Macey didn’t necessarily think Carol McCormick’s so-called pasture was greener…although it certainly was richer.)

  Because even though she’d drawn the line with Big Al, that didn
’t mean it would be any less risky for Grady to socialize with Macey. Just as they’d done to her father, the vampires would do the same to her: destroy anyone or anything she cared for.

  And now that she had Nicholas Iscariot looking for vengeance… She shuddered. Flora’s warning, and the information that Iscariot hadn’t escaped Macey unscathed, only made her more of a target for the master of the undead. She would have to be terribly careful, extremely brave, and very strong.

  And then, all at once, Macey suddenly felt lighter of heart. She had Chas and Sebastian. And now that she’d left Capone, she’d be working with them more, planning and strategizing with them, training with Temple, even visiting with Aunt Cookie in her millinery. She was back where she needed to be.

  And she could forget about Grady, move on and see what developed with Chas…

  Macey smiled a little in the waning moonlight, though deep inside that heavy little stone of sadness and guilt still sat there. It would eventually dissolve, she knew, and at least she wouldn’t make the same mistake as her father. She wouldn’t be responsible for the death of someone she loved.

  She’d been walking for a few blocks when she realized her feet hadn’t taken her to the Lexington, but instead toward Old St. Patrick’s Church, where she’d encountered the elderly woman. The elegant steeple, which was so old it hardly stood half as high as the newer buildings that surrounded it, cast a cross-topped shadow over the pavement.

  As she looked at it, considering whether to walk closer and perhaps even go in, Macey remembered what the old woman had said to her.

  Do you still have the rosary? The one I gave you? Keep the rosary near. You will be in need of it.

  She stopped suddenly on the pavement. Those words, that warning, settled sharply in her mind and sent urgent prickles along her arms. She didn’t know where it was, but she knew where she’d last had it. At her old apartment above Mrs. Gutchinson’s.

  Forget the Lexington. Her old flat—that was where she’d go for the rest of the night—it was probably only another two hours until dawn. Many of her things were still there, and the place was deserted. No one would bother her or look for her there.

  She could search for the rosary. After her experience with Nicholas Iscariot, burning his face with the large cross, Macey realized she needed all the help she could get.

  * * *

  Macey couldn’t find it.

  There was no electricity at the house anymore, but she had her flashlight. Nevertheless, she didn’t find the rosary, and though the piece had no real meaning for her—not being Catholic or even particularly religious—she felt guilty and unsettled that it was missing.

  Weary and a little heartsick, she watched the dawn through her bedroom window—the window on which she’d laid that rosary the first night she’d ever encountered a vampire. After managing to stake him, she’d placed the holy article there on the sill in hopes of warding off any other undead intruders.

  Grady had seen it and remarked on it too, and that was the beginning of him learning about her secret life.

  She’d not realized how amazing it was that she’d been given the rosary on the very same day she encountered her first vampire.

  That could not be a coincidence. Nor could it be one that the old woman wanted her to have it.

  Perhaps Macey should go back and talk to her. Find out more. Find out what to do if she didn’t locate the prayer beads.

  She shook her head and stood, restless, discomfited, and impatient. It was dawn. Time to leave, to return to The Silver Chalice and the secret room beneath Cookie’s Smart Millinery, and to put her life—such as it was—back together.

  She chose to walk instead of trying to find a cab, and as it turned out, that was the best decision. For standing on the busiest street corners were newsboys, hawking their first editions.

  Macey couldn’t stop herself from buying a copy of the Tribune, and sure enough, splashed on the top of the front page was the headline Explosive Event For Gala Attendees: Would-be Bombers Still at Large. The byline was, of course, J. Grady.

  But before she could examine the photograph of a cluster of the movers and shakers of Chicago, surrounding Grady and Rob McCormick next to the defused Betsy, Macey caught sight of another headline further down the page. Brutal Attack Leaves Police Officer Near Death.

  As she scanned the article, all feeling drained from her body, leaving her cold and shaky. And nauseated.

  What have I done?

  “Taxi!” she shrieked, suddenly spinning toward busy Michigan Avenue. “Taxi!”

  Miraculously, one pulled up and she scrambled in, heart pounding, stomach churning. “St. Joe’s Hospital. Quickly.”

  Oh God, oh God…please don’t let him die. Please don’t let him die.

  TWENTY-TWO

  ~ Of Blame and Recriminations ~

  Macey was out of breath by the time she got to the correct floor at the hospital. She rushed down the hall of the critical unit ward, ignoring the startled looks from nurses and patients alike, jolting to a stop outside Room 340.

  Heart thudding, insides in turmoil, she drew a deep breath and peeked around the corner and into the room.

  Grady sat, head bowed, in a chair pulled up close to the bed. Macey released her suspended breath when she saw that the patient was not—as she’d feared—shrouded from head to toe by a sheet.

  She stepped into the room and Grady’s head snapped up, swiveling in her direction. Shock widened his eyes—weary eyes, with dark circles beneath them, gilded with pain and anxiety. He was overdue for a shave, and—as with Macey—he was still dressed in his formal clothing from the gala. He hadn’t even taken off his tuxedo jacket; it hung crooked and wrinkled from his shoulders, and would probably never be the same. His hair was rumpled and disorderly, and his cheeks were hollow with grief.

  There was no one else in the room except for Linwood, whose rough, labored breathing also made the only noise. His eyes were closed, his skin sickly white. Macey could see yards of bandages around the parts of his neck, throat, and shoulders exposed by the half-drawn sheet. Grady held one of his uncle’s hands, his deft, lock-picking fingers wrapped around a paw that was just as large as his own, but too pale and limp to be powerful.

  “What are you doing here?” The question wasn’t challenging or angry—but by all means, it should have been. It should have been filled with blame and fury. Instead, he sounded surprised and perhaps even relieved.

  She moved closer, looking down at Linwood’s inert body. His breathing rasped loudly in the momentary silence. “I saw the newspaper. As soon as I read the article, I knew what had happened.” She didn’t need to say the words—that Detective Linwood and his companions, two other police officers, had been attacked by vampires.

  It was an attack that could have been prevented if she had been fulfilling her duty instead of allowing Big Al Capone to manipulate and control her. Her stomach lurched again, and she spared a moment of thanks that she’d had nothing to eat since last night—or else everything would probably come up.

  “He hasn’t been conscious since they brought him in. We’re just hoping he wakes up.” Grady’s voice was low and steady, and he was looking at his uncle again as Macey moved to the foot of the bed. “I wanted him to come to the gala last night. He wasn’t even supposed to be working. But he wanted to follow up on a lead about those counterfeiters…”

  “The ring you broke up?” Macey asked, recognizing guilt and self-recrimination in Grady’s voice. “Don’t you blame yourself for that,” she added sharply, allowing her own fury and guilt to come through in her tone. “This,” she said, stabbing a finger at Linwood, “is not your fault in any way.”

  “He’s all I have. And if he hadn’t been trying to help me, he—”

  “No,” she whispered fiercely, trying to hold back tears of frustration and grief and guilt. Her hands trembled. “No, Grady, don’t you even say that. It’s my fault. If I’d been…if I’d been doing what I should have been doing, this wouldn
’t have happened. I should have been out there last night. I should have been…” She stopped, everything suddenly making terrible, awful, horrible sense.

  It was Nicholas Iscariot.

  It had to have been.

  She felt lightheaded with horror and fear. What better way to get to Macey—to torture and then destroy her—than to destroy someone she lo—someone she cared about. Not by killing or attacking him, but by attacking and mutilating someone he loved. Thereby extending the pain and anguish of both Grady and Macey…until Iscariot actually got to the final destruction of Grady himself.

  And anyone else Macey had an attachment to.

  “Are you all right?” Grady stood. He towered over her, his shadow falling across the white sheets of the bed.

  Distance yawned between them as he faced her—a gulf, Lake Michigan, the Rockies; some nameless, vast expanse—and yet she felt him: his warmth, his presence, his energy.

  He didn’t reach for her, but she felt him as if he had. They looked at each other, gazes meeting: anguish to guilt, weariness to regret. Something bumped deep inside her, nudging that hard little stone still lodged in her heart.

  “I’m so sorry,” Macey whispered. He nodded and she saw him swallow hard. “What are the doctors saying?”

  The damage had been done. Her lesson learned. Perhaps Linwood would recover…but with those sorts of wounds, the brutal laying open of throat and torso—that assault had been much more than a feeding. It was an attack. A message.

  Just as had been laid upon Mrs. Gutchinson. And Chelle. Macey’s jaw tightened and her fingers curled, reminding her of their power—of the strength that flowed through them. Now she had more reason to confront Iscariot, to face him again and finish this.

  “They don’t know. They’ve done everything they can for him,” Grady replied. “Now we wait. And pray he wakes up.”