Roaring Shadows

by Colleen Gleason

  Bolting out the door, she slammed it shut behind her and dashed across the courtyard to St. Anselm’s, all the while thankful that Chas had chosen a home right next to a church.

  Noon mass was going on as she slipped inside—at least, she guessed that was what it was; people were in the pews and singing as the priest walked down the aisle—but Macey ignored the few people who turned back to look at her.

  Instead, she found a large basin of holy water in the vestibule of the church and filled the Mason jars, then ran back to Chas’s apartment. Less than a minute later, she was back in his room with the jars of salted holy water.

  “I’m sorry, Chas,” she said as she began to pour it generously over him, soaking his skin, clothes, and sheets.

  He screamed, arching and twisting with agony as the water sizzled and steamed whenever it hit an open wound. He cursed her and cried, huddling into a ball in spite of himself—which required Macey to readjust him onto his back, tears of anguish spilling from her eyes as she forced him to continue the terrible pain. It was the only way—the only hope. He was so far gone, so injured and depleted of blood, that only a miracle could save him.

  Chas shuddered, shook, even sobbed and cursed when she came back with the Mason jars refilled and dumped them on him a second time. He cried, “Just let me goddamned die”—but she ignored him and kept pouring, kept sobbing, kept her teeth gritted as she did one of the hardest things she’d ever had to do.

  Finally, after dousing him the second time, she tottered into the living room and located his telephone. She called The Silver Chalice.

  No sooner had she identified herself than Temple—who’d answered the phone—lit into her. “Where the hell are you? Where have you been?”

  Macey finally got her to listen, and the woman calmed down enough to comprehend the seriousness of Chas’s situation. “You’re at his house? I’m coming there right away.” Though that was the only thing Temple said, Macey could hear the underlying fury and blame in her words.

  This was all her fault. All of it—Linwood, Chas, and whatever else had happened.

  Blind with unshed tears, shaky with uncertainty and exhaustion, Macey found clean towels and blankets and brought them, along with warm-water-soaked cloths to clean him up as well as she could. She cut away his clothes, dabbing at his injuries as carefully as possible without moving him. He was panting, still curled on his side in agony, rigid against the torture.

  But when she tried to roll him onto his back again to get the front, he cried out. His eyes bolted open, blazing with pain.

  “My…god…damned…arm,” he said furiously. “Stop!” Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he went limp.

  Choking back tears—for she’d never seen such agony in his face—she took a better look at the arm he seemed to favor. Her empty stomach pitched, for the jagged edge of his humerus partially protruded from the skin of his bicep. Until she began washing away the blood, she hadn’t realized the extent of the injury.

  “Oh my God,” she breathed. Venator or no, it was no wonder he wanted to die. How long had he been lying here like this? And how in the hell had he gotten himself here anyway? And why—why oh why—had he not gone to the hospital?

  “I’m calling an ambulance. You need a doctor,” she said, even though he was unconscious and couldn’t hear her.

  Except he could. A hand closed tightly over her thigh. It was clearly a negative response, and his grip hurt.

  “Chas,” she said, pulling away, and felt worse when he forced his eyes open. They were bloodshot, his face was gray, and his lips were peeled back in a furious expression. “You’re going to die if I don’t get you help.” Her voice rose in a desperate plea. I need you.

  “Don’t…fucking…care. Long…past…time.” Perhaps it was easier for him to be distracted, dragging out those words instead of focused on the pain. His hand moved and somehow curled around her arm. It was like an iron band, and he slowly, deliberately pulled her down onto the bed. “Stay. Here. Let…me…go.”

  “Please, Chas.” I can’t lose you too. Macey struggled, trying to peel his fingers away, but somehow he was too strong—or she was too exhausted and heartsick—and the next thing she knew, she’d collapsed onto the bed next to him, sobbing silently.

  What have I done?

  Finally, Macey felt the heavy grip ease. His breathing was rough and unsteady, but he didn’t awaken as she slipped free and looked down at him. His arm lay useless next to him.

  You’re a Venator. You’re strong. Fix it.

  Fix it, or he won’t fight again.

  He’ll probably die.

  Oh God.

  Macey touched his face. It burned her hand, and he didn’t move. He was completely out of it. But…did the wounds on his chest and throat look slightly better? A little less ugly and raw? Had the bleeding slowed? Perhaps.

  All right. Next thing. Could she put the bone back into place? She was strong enough…

  Trying not to think too hard about what had to be done, and whether she was doing the right thing, she swiftly cut away what was left of his sleeve to bare Chas’s muscular arm. Once his arm was uncovered and she could see where things had to go, she grasped his forearm with two hands that barely fit around it and drew in another deep, steadying breath.

  And she gave a sharp, hard pull.

  Chas shrieked, bucked awake and half upright…then, mercifully, collapsed back onto the bed. Silent but for his panting, and otherwise unmoving. He was obviously unconscious once more, or he would have been cursing her. Or worse.

  Shaking, Macey looked down at what she’d done—the bone was no longer protruding, and things looked more “in place” despite the ugly black, purple, and raw red laceration. Then she bolted from the room to puke—but nothing came from her empty belly. After that, she found the telephone and called an ambulance. Then she went next door to St. Anselm’s to fill the Mason jars one more time.

  Where was Temple?

  Whether salted holy water would work on a compound fracture or its laceration, she had no idea, but at this point, Macey was out of ideas. All she knew was the bone was in place, and now they had to worry about infection.

  She couldn’t lose Chas. Good God, what would she do without him? Alone in Chicago, facing vampires on her own?

  Well, hell. Hadn’t he been doing just that while Macey was messing around with Al Capone?

  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.

  He’d been right. And now he and Macey—and all of them—were paying the price for her blindness.

  She touched the rosary around her neck, offered up a quick prayer, then dumped two full jars of the salted holy water over Chas’s leg, and splashed a little more on the rest of his wounds for good measure. He jolted and moaned in his sleep. His breathing sharpened, but he didn’t awaken.

  She didn’t know whether that was a good thing or not.

  Macey heard a noise from the living room. The back of her neck felt normal, so she snatched up a stake along with the pistol Chas kept on his bureau and hurried out of the bedroom. It was too soon for the ambulance.

  “Temple!” she cried with relief. “What took you so long? I was worried.”

  The cool and collected woman still had every one of her short, sleek hairs in place, and her skirt and blouse were perfectly straight and pressed, but her expression was more taut than a bowstring. “It’s only been an hour, sister, and there was a traffic jam. And if anyone is asking anyone where they been, it should be me asking you.”

  “I know,” Macey said, glancing at the clock for the first time. It had been only an hour—but she’d felt like it was half a day. A look outside told her why, for she’d not even noticed the heavy rain clouds that made it dark, seeming later in the day than it was. “Look, I’m done with Capone for good. I’m not going back.”

  “Long overdue,” snapped Temple, brushing pas
t Macey to stalk down the hall to the bedroom. “Is he going to live?” She paused to flip a thumb in the direction of Chas.

  “I hope so.” Macey filled her in on Chas’s condition. “I don’t know how he even got back here, he’s so weak—and why he didn’t go to you or Sebastian instead. I don’t know where or when he was attacked, but I’d sure as hell like to find out.”

  “What the hell you been doing anyway?” Temple muttered sourly. “Well, it’s probably that old theater, the Iroquois—now they’re calling it the Oriental Theatre. They’re done fixing it up, and isn’t the grand opening tonight? That’s why there was such a traffic jam.”

  Even newcomers to Chicago like Temple knew the story of the original Iroquois Theatre—when hundreds of people had been trapped inside during a fire in 1903. No one had touched the property for more than twenty years because of the bad memories and reputation. But the new owners had been working diligently on it, and something about the reopening had been mentioned in the papers nearly every week.

  “So what do you know about the theater?”

  “There was an incident there last night—several cops were hurt. One died. The papers aren’t saying what it was, and the owners are trying to push it off as an accident. But I don’t think so.”

  By now they were in Chas’s bedroom and Temple was digging in the small satchel she brought even as she looked at his unmoving figure. “He don’t look too good.”

  “I’ve got to go,” Macey said after she answered a few more questions about Chas’s condition.

  “Yes you do. And forget the damned ambulance. I’ll get Aunt Cookie here and we’ll do what we can. Good thing we got a church nearby. That water’s probably the only thing that could save him.” Temple stepped back and eyeballed Macey. “You’re going to want to clean up a little.”

  She began to protest, but swallowed it. Right. She couldn’t go on a vampire-hunting rampage dressed in an evening frock. And maybe something to eat would be in order.

  And then she’d be off to visit Sebastian and beg his forgiveness.

  Then they could figure out what to do next.

  * * *

  Sebastian had awakened late that afternoon (which, with him being a nocturnal, was more like his morning) in a glorious mood. Truly, he hadn’t felt so upbeat and happy in decades…possibly centuries.

  The fact that Temple, with her long, strong legs and full, sensual lips—along with several other delicious assets—had joined him in bed for the first time might have had something to do with it. He stretched lazily, smiling to himself. It had been a delightful interlude—and in a bed instead of some cramped mode of transport.

  And he hadn’t dreamed about Macey—or Victoria or Giulia, for that matter. He’d slept well. He felt invigorated and revived.

  He’d told no one about the loose ring, which had now become even looser. In fact, he was able to work it up and over his knuckle, which meant he could pull it off his finger. He didn’t know what it meant, but surely it had to be a good sign.

  This morning—figuratively speaking, for it was nearly four in the afternoon—he sat up in bed with a smile on his face and went through the routine of twisting his ruby ring, and then each of the copper rings.

  His heart skipped when he felt a different one turn. It wiggled a little on his pinkie finger, sending him bolting from the bed. Temple was long gone—he’d felt her slip away sometime during his sleep, for she was on a completely different schedule than he—and Sebastian was alone with the cautious hope that shuttled through him.

  Two loose rings. Something was definitely happening.

  And today…yes, today was the 25th of April, 1926.

  On the 26th of April, 1821, Wayren had given Sebastian the ruby signet ring in a dream. This will help you get through this. It will give you strength.

  That was the day he’d left Victoria for good and set out for the raw mountainside cave of Munții Fârâgaș.

  That was the day he made the long promise—to himself and to Giulia.

  One hundred and five years ago.

  He flung the sheets away, washed, dressed, cleaned his teeth, and went from his private apartments to the pub. He saw a scrawled note from Temple on the desk in the back room, but before he got to it, he heard the door from the exterior stairs leading from the street open.

  It was Macey.

  She looked different somehow. Softer. A little blurry, perhaps. Blurry was a strange word, but—

  “Sebastian…I’m back. May I…may I come in?”

  “Macey!” Relief burst over him. “Of course. You’re back.”

  She smiled with shyness and obvious regret, even a little bashfulness. “I wasn’t sure if you’d ever want to see me again,” she said, closing the door before she strode across the wood-planked floor to him. Her eyes were large and luminous in her face, and his heart creaked a little when he saw Giulia there yet again.

  “I’ve missed you,” she said, still holding him with her gaze, as if afraid he’d banish her. “I shouldn’t have left.” Her voice trailed off. “Can you forgive me?”

  “You’re here,” he said. “You’re here, cher, you’re here now.”

  “Sebastian.” She looked as if she were about to cry. “I…”

  He came around from behind the counter, hardly thinking about what he was doing. He gathered her into his arms, pulling her close in a fatherly—definitely fatherly—embrace. “Macey,” he whispered into her curls. “It’s all right.” His chin rested on top of her head; her hair smelled clean and fresh, and her body was warm against him—compact and lithe, just as Giulia’s had been.

  He suddenly became aware of her…very aware.

  Sebastian stilled, trembling a deep inside as he battled grief and curiosity. The memory of those dark, lascivious dreams rushed into the forefront of his mind, swamping his thoughts as he held her. He pushed them back, clearing away the temptation, banishing the tease filtering through his mind.

  No.

  Macey lifted her head from his shoulder and looked up at him. She was right there: her lovely face so very close, her eyes incredibly soft and beautiful…and there was something else there… Interest? Curiosity? Heat?

  A warning bell rang in the back of his mind, and Sebastian began to push her away, but she gripped his arms.

  “What is it?” she asked, and he was suddenly aware of her thighs pressing against his. A hip nestled into his leg. She licked her lips nervously and his mouth went dry, his attention focused there.

  “You’re curious too, aren’t you, Sebastian?” she whispered. Her little tongue came out, darting along the seam of her lush pink mouth, sending a stab of lust down through his torso. “You want to know what it’s like to kiss me.”

  “No,” he made himself say firmly. Her mouth was close. So close. He could feel the warmth of her lips. If he drew in a deep breath, they’d brush against his. “No,” he said again. “I’m not. I never have been.”

  But his fangs were in the way, filling his mouth with their sharp, bold lengths. His breathing grew rougher, and desire blazed through him. She pressed against his body; surely she could feel his cock beginning to harden between his legs, the subtle tremors beneath his skin.

  “Kiss me, Sebastian. I want to taste you.” She lifted her face, and her mouth brushed his—warm and soft and moist. Her tongue slipped out, sliding over his parted lips, leaving hot, adulterous tingles radiating through his body. Her eyes—Giulia’s eyes; always Giulia’s eyes—captured his, dark and heady and fathomless. “Please, Sebastian.”

  With a groan of effort, he shoved her away, hard enough to break her grip—and to give him some much-needed space.

  She caught herself from stumbling, and when she turned back around to look up at him, her soft, lovely face was melting…and it was no longer Macey’s.

  And the back of his neck had gone abruptly cold.

  With a tight curse, Sebastian leapt over the bar counter and grabbed a stake, but the creature—it had metamorphosed into som
e anonymous vampiress or demon who slightly resembled Macey, but was no longer her mirror image—bolted to the door through which she’d come.

  He stared after her—it—whatever it was, chest heaving, ever so thankful he’d resisted, that he’d pushed her away and kept himself clean. He knew he should follow her—it—but he was still reeling, still incredibly grateful he’d been strong.

  Hands trembling more than they should, considering what he’d lived through in more than 120 years, Sebastian pulled out his favorite liquor bottle—the dark glass one with the black prism-like stopper that fit in his palm. The one even Chas Woodmore didn’t know about.

  He poured a generous bit of the special rosy-amber drink into a glass and swigged it down. The exuberance of the day was gone…and yet it had been replaced by something like determination. Relief.

  What he’d always feared would happen—in a manner of speaking—had occurred, and he’d fought his way through it. He’d been strong.

  “Is this the fulfillment of the long promise, then?” he demanded of the universe at large. Where the hell was Wayren? He could really use her about now… His hand covered the top of the pyramidal bottle stopper, gripping it tightly as he felt its heat and power seep into his skin.

  The back of his neck went sharply cold again.

  Much too cold.

  Sebastian shoved the bottle under the counter and launched himself toward the door through which the faux Macey had just exited, but it burst open before he got there. The tempting vampiress stood there on the threshold, now with her own fangs gleaming and her eyes bold and burning. She wore a hot, knowing smile.

  Sebastian had already somersaulted backward, snatching up a chair and a stake as the creature stepped aside to allow her companions to pour in.

  Three, four, no, seven, no, ten… He lost count as the undead streamed into his pub, with glowing red or Guardian-pink eyes and all with fangs at the ready. There was no subtlety, no dancing around the situation—they were there, and they were there for him.

  All thanks to the faux Macey, whom he’d invited in and who had, in turn, thus been liberated to invite her own crew inside…