And then, there in front of him, the faux Macey shimmered, lengthened, broadened in a sort of swirling metamorphosis…and became Nicholas Iscariot.
“Well, well. I had no idea you were so talented, Nicky,” Sebastian said coolly. He counted twelve undead, not including the Macey-turned-vampiress-turned-Iscariot. He eased along the counter, keeping his hands out of sight from the intruders. “What’s next on the agenda…Carole Lombard?”
“Sebastian Vioget. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you—although your reputation does precede you.”
The son of Judas Iscariot was tall, lean, and cold in his male beauty. His hair shone dark, and though slicked back on the sides and back, it rose like a high, smooth wave over his equally tall white forehead. He wore a well-cut suit, red tie, and white spats, with a crimson handkerchief bursting from the breast pocket of his jacket. Sebastian couldn’t fault the creature for his sense of style. Iscariot’s handsome face was smooth as white marble, with a square chin, hollow cheeks, protruding eyes, and strong brows…except for the diagonal cross marking his left cheek and jaw.
Sebastian’s own fangs were long and ready, and he felt the heat of his eyes burning with fury. And even then, as he faced the most powerful and fearsome of the world’s undead—along with a mob of his goons—he slipped his fingers beneath the cotton of his shirt to touch the vis bulla…and then to twist the ruby ring on his finger. Strength and comfort rushed through him.
Now. There. He was ready.
Ready to see this to the end.
Sebastian smiled coolly. “I see my Macey has left her mark, Scarface.”
Iscariot’s eyes flared wider and redder, and yet he lifted one slender white finger to keep his minions from surging forward. “I’m not particularly pleased with her, as you might imagine. But, of course, that’s why I’m here.” He bared his fangs in a polite smile. “Though that isn’t the only reason I’ve paid you a visit at last. As I’m certain you can surmise.”
“The Rings of Jubai. Of course.” Sebastian sounded bored as he extended the hand with the copper bands, pretending to admire his fingers. “How unoriginal of you, Nicky.”
“Well, one can only plan so many surprises. Speaking of which, I could tell you greatly enjoyed the one I cooked up for you a moment ago. It was very much worth the effort it cost me to mask myself, even for that short while…” Iscariot twirled his finger and spun into Macey once again, writhing his curvy body and parting his lips in a seductive manner. “To see you panting and lusting after me.”
“I didn’t realize you enjoyed that sort of attention from men.” Sebastian whipped a stake across the room like a knife-thrower. It spun through the air, nailing a nearby undead in the heart with a delicious splat.
The vampire hadn’t even poofed into dust before Sebastian winged a second pike from behind, sending it revolving in the other direction—directly toward the heart of Iscariot’s sinuous Macey body.
Iscariot-Macey dodged just in time, and the stake plunged into an unfortunate undead just behind him. There was so much fury and power in the stake meant for Iscariot that the unlucky victim was pinned against the wall for a brief instant before he poofed into dust.
Under attack, Iscariot had popped back into himself, and his eyes were surely hotter than the fires of hell. Loathing rolled off him like beads of sweat. “That wasn’t very hospitable of you, Vioget. Not at all.”
“Oh, so sorry…I slipped.” Sebastian grinned. He had several other stakes at his disposal, but he figured he’d showed off enough. He didn’t need anyone comparing him to Max Pesaro. “Now, though I suspect it’ll be futile, I’m going to have to ask you and your mollies—at least, the ones you have left—to leave. The place doesn’t open till sundown and I’ve got work to do.”
Iscariot didn’t bother to speak. He gave some sort of silent command and the vampires attacked.
But Sebastian was ready for them. He was still behind the counter, and as the undead surged toward him, he withdrew the silver-gilt sword tucked beneath the long expanse and swung around, brandishing it in both hands.
Power roared through him as the blade sliced through one, then a second undead throat before being halted in midair by the meaty hand of a third creature. Sebastian released the sword’s hilt and grabbed a stake as he vaulted over the counter, his feet smashing into the shoulder and torso of a startled vampire.
He tumbled to the ground and came up swinging, stabbing one, then a second undead as he dove into the legs of a third, upending the creature. He dusted the first vamp, missed the second, devil it, and then suddenly, as he came back up onto his feet, he was surrounded. Trapped, gripped, held.
Numerous fists pummeled him in the torso, arms, shoulders, back…nails raked down his face and limbs…someone kicked him in the belly, knocking every bit of breath from him. He coughed and doubled over, trying to find his breath as fangs penetrated his arm…his shoulder…a thigh…
Blood flowed from him, blood and power and consciousness.
The world wavered, black and red, swimming silently…
Then everything quieted. Stilled.
Sebastian opened his eyes—one was already swelling from a well-placed blow—and found himself face to face with Iscariot. The heat of the creature’s breath warmed his face. It smelled of death.
The rough beams of the pub’s ceiling rose high behind the master vampire as strong hands held Sebastian immobile on the ground. So he was still here, lying in a pool of his own tainted blood.
Sebastian relaxed. So this was how it would end.
He managed his trademark smile—crooked, insouciant, and charming, and more difficult than usual, given the fact that his lips were also swelling, and perhaps he’d even lost a tooth because something throbbed terribly in there—and waited eagerly for the final pain. For surely Iscariot wouldn’t let it be as simple as a stake…yet it would finally end. It would all be over. The denouement, the story climaxed, the long promise fulfilled.
“Take care with the rings.” Sebastian heaved the words out, managing to twitch his numb, copper-ringed hand beneath the foot that smashed it into the ground. “I wouldn’t want you to…lose them after all this effort.”
Iscariot smiled and eased back. “I have no intention of relieving you of those rings. Not yet, anyway. In fact, I think I’ll let you keep them a little longer.”
Something struck Sebastian in the face—hard and heavy—and that was the last he knew.
TWENTY-FOUR
~ An Eerie Stillness Portends Nothing Positive ~
By the time Macey arrived at The Silver Chalice, it was past six o’clock. A heavy rainstorm with thick, gray clouds and a terrible downpour—not to mention lightning and thunder—wreaked havoc on the traffic, and made it impossible to find a taxi.
The delay did, however, allow her to grab a copy of the afternoon edition of the Tribune from a corner newsstand. While she sat impatiently in the back of an unmoving cab, she scanned the headlines with her heart in her throat.
If Linwood died, it would be in the paper.
And so far, there was nothing. Not even, she noticed sadly, an afternoon byline by J. Grady.
When the cab pulled up on the street by The Silver Chalice, Macey tossed the fare and a generous tip into the front seat and scrambled out into pouring rain. She was soaked by the time she got to the silver finial at the top of the wrought iron gate that led below street level to the pub’s door.
She flung it open, bursting inside in a torrent of rain and cyclonic wind caught up in the stairwell, and slammed the door behind her. Expecting to find Sebastian behind the counter, Macey was mildly surprised that the place was empty and silent.
The chairs were still upended neatly over the tables, ready to be put down at seven, when the joint opened—which was only a half-hour from now. The counter was clear except for a single glass partly filled with some sort of spirits.
She sniffed. Was that the faint scent of undead ash? She wasn’t certain.
She snif
fed again. Blood? Did she smell blood?
Skin prickling slightly, she poked her head into the back office. Empty. “Sebastian?” She went into the hall leading to his private apartments.
Silence, stillness.
Nothing seemed out of place, but something felt off.
She opened a door she’d never breached before and found herself in Sebastian’s bedroom. Curious and apprehensive, she went inside, noticing the wooden valet stand that held his robe. On one wall was a massive wardrobe, neat as a pin, with hangers of tailored clothing and rows of polished shoes. He was a dapper man, Sebastian Vioget.
Telling herself it was in the interest of his safety—for she knew something wasn’t quite right—Macey opened the drawer of the table next to his neatly made bed. Stakes. A pistol. Vials of presumably holy water.
And a copper ring.
She plunged her hand into the drawer and pulled out the simple band of braided copper.
Was this one of the Rings of Jubai?
If so, for how long had Sebastian been able to remove it?
What did it mean that it was here, and he was not?
Macey looked down at it, holding it in the palm of her hand. The five rings had been forged by Lilith the Dark centuries ago and given to five of her Guardian vampires. Did that mean it was malevolent and evil on its own?
What would happen if she slid it onto her finger? Would it adhere to her skin, as it had done to Sebastian’s, a hundred years ago?
She decided not to tempt fate. Instead, still apprehensive, she returned it to its place and closed the drawer.
Now she really needed to find Sebastian.
I wish I could talk to Chas.
Back out into the pub moments later, Macey looked around one last time…and that was when she saw it.
A stake. On the floor at the seam of the wall in the rear of the bar, hidden by shadows unless one looked closely.
There was no reason a stake would be on the floor over here unless it had been used, and if it had…it should have been returned to its rightful place. The apprehensive prickles grew stronger as she picked it up and examined the tip beneath one of the lamps.
It was gritty with vampire dust.
* * *
It was well past seven o’clock in the evening and still stormy by the time Macey was able to get back to Chas’s house.
“Lordy Moses, what’re you doing here?” Temple said when she came in. “Don’t you have something to do?”
Macey didn’t really have an answer for that reasonable question. She wanted quite desperately to talk to Chas, but dared not even put that desire into words; he’d been in such a bad way when she left. Instead, she fumbled for an explanation for her detour back to the house in the shadow of St. Anselm’s.
“Sebastian’s not at the pub,” she told Temple. “And it looks like vampires were there—maybe they took him. Maybe he just disappeared on his own, for his own reasons. Maybe he went after them himself. I don’t know. I came to get supplies and weapons—and to see if you knew where he could be.” Macey had decided not to mention anything about the copper ring. “And…to see if there’s been any change.” She glanced down the hall.
Temple’s jaw tightened. “No, and no. Sebastian was sleeping when I left to come here. And Chas—there’s no change there. Except…”
“What?”
“He’s called for Narcise a few times.” Temple shrugged, and Macey noticed she wouldn’t quite meet her eyes. Did the other woman know about the two of them already?
“Poor sot,” was all Macey said, surprised by the pang in her heart. She’d think about what that meant later.
“Auntie thinks he should go to the hospital.”
“Then take him. I’m going to the Oriental Theatre.” If that was where Linwood and his companions had been attacked, that was as good a place as any to begin her hunt for Nicholas Iscariot.
And if she was going alone, she was going well armed and fully prepared.
Temple nodded, her expression grave. “I’ll come with you. I may not be a Venator, but you know I’ve got some good moves.”
Macey hesitated, then shook her head. “Much as I would love to have you watching my back, I don’t think it’s a good idea. If Sebastian comes back, or if I don’t—well, someone has to be here to—to…” She shrugged. “Someone has to take care of things.”
Temple looked as if she were about to argue, but her words were forestalled when Aunt Cookie appeared. “That man’s gotta see a doctor. His fever’s gone bad. I’m calling an ambulance.”
Fear seized Macey by the throat. “Do it. Don’t waste any more time.” She turned to her friend. “Take care of him, Temple.”
“You shouldn’t go alone.”
Macey looked at her, and for the first time, the reality of her situation became clear. She was completely alone. “There’s no one else.”
* * *
Despite the horrible fate of the Iroquois twenty-some years ago, the luxe decor of the Oriental Theatre seemed to have wiped away any of the lingering negativity of its predecessor. Throngs of people filled the sidewalk in front of it, and the street was backed up in both directions as attendees climbed out of private automobiles and taxis to line up for admission.
Jaunty, carnival-like music rolled out from inside the open doors like an aural red carpet. Every few minutes, streamers and confetti exploded from a cannon-like device, showering laughing and talking patrons as they made their way inside. As soon as they stepped over the threshold, each attendee was given a small paper cone of honey-toasted almonds.
Unlike the previous night’s gala at the Art Institute, this was not a formal occasion. There were many fewer jewels and a severe lack of tuxedos and tailcoats. Macey didn’t mind that, for she’d chosen to dress much more casually herself tonight—in loose sailor pants and a simple cotton blouse, along with sturdy, low-heeled shoes.
But as soon as she stepped through the brass-and-glass revolving door, she recognized another, more disturbing difference.
The back of her neck and all along the tops of her shoulders went frigid. The sudden, nauseating chill was accompanied by a wave of malevolence that staggered her. It was almost as if she’d walked into—no, through—a wall of evil incarnate.
Feeling dizzy from the intensity, Macey stopped in the midst of the incoming flow of people and slipped off to the side to get her bearings. Her hands had gone cold. Whatever percolated inside this building was terrifying and strong.
Upon its unleashing, a root of malevolence shall marshal such power as never before known. The second part of Rosamunde’s prophecy flashed through her mind. If anything felt like a “root of malevolence,” it was the sensation in this place.
…And only the dauntless one and his peer shall rise up to it.
The dauntless one and his peer…
But Macey wasn’t the dauntless one. And she was alone.
Someone bumped into her—an oblivious young man, speaking and gesturing enthusiastically to a group of friends as they brushed by—jarring her back to the moment. She stepped back even further from the crowd, now pressing her back flush against the wall.
What am I going to do?
She watched the hordes of people streaming into the building, her anxiety growing. Whatever was here, whatever Nicholas Iscariot had planned, wherever he was…every single person who crossed this threshold was in mortal danger.
I have to get them out.
The answer flashed into her mind with bell-like clarity.
“Fire!” she cried. “Fire!”
The reaction was instantaneous. Whether it was because of the history of this location and the terrible fire that had killed hundreds, or simply the normal response to such a warning, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that people were leaving.
Shouts, screams, panic…
A stampede could be dangerous…but was it more dangerous than being trapped by the malevolent undead?
No.
She hoped.
Whatever the malignancy was, it remained.
She pushed through the lobby, navigating along the walls so as not to be swept out with the mob while doing her best to make sure everyone got out safely. To her relief, the exodus was surprisingly orderly—helped in part by the ticket-takers at the doors, and the fact that many extra exits had been added to the new structure. A few people pushed harder than necessary, but no one seemed to be panicked, and the patrons filed out quickly from all sides of the building.
By now, the crowd was coming out of the viewing auditorium, and even though there were some comments like “I don’t smell any smoke!” and “Where’s the fire?” no one was taking a chance on remaining inside.
The last thing anyone wanted was for a repeat of history.
Macey began to breathe a little easier as the crowd thinned, and then she heard sirens in the distance. Someone had taken the warning seriously; the firemen were on their way.
What would happen when they saw there was no blaze?
Would everyone come back in?
She was standing at the top of one of the side aisles, which sloped gently down toward the stage above which the moving picture screen was mounted. The sense of evil fairly pressed down upon her in this smaller, quieter space. Macey reached for her stake, extracting it from a deep pocket. She found comfort in the solid, round pike as she held it alongside her trouser-clad thigh.
By now more half the auditorium was empty. The patrons who remained seemed uninterested in the warning cries of “fire!” and were meandering about in a surprisingly relaxed manner, chatting and laughing as if they hadn’t a care in the world.
Roaring Shadows Page 21
