Roaring Shadows

by Colleen Gleason

  Why weren’t they leaving? They didn’t even seem to notice the activity going on around them, even when she shouted, “Fire!” to a cluster of people standing in the aisle.

  When she noticed their clothing, Macey froze. Her hand strayed onto the edge of a velvet-upholstered seat and gripped hard. They were dressed in the fashions of twenty years ago…not today.

  She looked around, and it was true: all of them. Everyone who was here, everyone who remained…they were all dressed in the attire of 1903, when the Iroquois had burned down in this very location.

  A dull thud drew her attention toward the door up the aisle behind her. It was closed. It had been open just a moment earlier—but now her ears were filled with the cacophony of the rest of the doors thudding closed around the top of the auditorium.

  She wasn’t going to be able to open them. The hair on her arms stood on end and she turned slowly to look around the theater. Its occupants—people? spirits? vampires?—there were too many mixed sensations assaulting her to be certain—continued to interact as if Macey wasn’t there, as if they hadn’t died in a fire twenty years ago, as if they were unaware of the eerie, creeping malevolence that seemed to filter through the air.

  As she turned slowly, watching, waiting, expectant, Macey noticed one of the stragglers from across the theater. She was reminded of Flora, for the woman had bright penny-colored hair and long, gangly limbs—

  It was Flora.

  But she was dressed normally, in today’s fashion. And she had her hand tucked through the elbow of a dark-haired companion in a suit. They were making their way up the aisle toward an exit on the opposite side of the auditorium. He looked at Flora, smiling and exuding charm, and that was when Macey saw his profile.

  Her heart stuttered…and then stopped dead. No.

  God, no, not Grady.

  Not Grady with Flora.

  A warning shriek clogged in her throat as Macey lunged, vaulting over a row of seats toward them.

  Flora turned and smiled over her shoulder at Macey—as if she’d known she was there all along. Then, with a grin, she tightened her grip on Grady’s arm and leaned in to speak to him.

  Macey scrambled over another seat—and then all at once, a swarm of people surrounded her. Everyone was in her way, blocking her movements, her view, her desperate attempt to catch up to Flora and Grady, who were now nearly at the exit.

  “Grady!” she cried…and wasn’t really sure whether the syllables came out or whether she was merely screaming inside her head. Nooo…

  She pushed and shoved, realizing dully that these people, these beings, were insubstantial. Not quite real, not quite phantoms…certainly not undead.

  But they were cold and sharp and raw as she pushed at them, sort of through them, using stake, arm, and hip. Macey felt as if she were battling upstream in an icy river filled with great swaths of fabric—silk, cotton, wool—and they clung to her, wrapping around her as she fought through them, stabbing ineffectively, marching through people-shaped entities, of ice and cold and evil and dankness…

  Suddenly she slammed into someone strong and solid. Hard. Cold. She struck out with her stake as powerful hands grabbed her, pulling at her. The stake hit something, someone; she felt the give and the subsequent pop.

  More hands, clawing at her, pulling…no longer ghostlike, but terribly strong, holding her back as she fought and writhed, kicked, bucked, stabbed…

  There was a poof, an explosion of dust. A blow to her side. A yank in one direction as she flailed out one more thrust with her stake at another creature. The chill, the cold enveloped her. Glowing red eyes and eerie shadows filled her vision.

  And then all at once everything stilled. She was free.

  Everything fell away, except…

  Nicholas Iscariot stood in front of her.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  ~ Two Unbearable Tasks ~

  “Going somewhere?” asked Iscariot. He was impeccably dressed in a well-cut suit with a silky handkerchief in the pocket and a perfect tie. “So soon? When I haven’t had the chance to properly thank you for this?” His expression turned dark as he turned his head so Macey could see the livid red cross-shaped scar on his face.

  She jolted at the sight of it, shocked at its raw, red ferocity, and yet pleased that he hadn’t left their battle in the morgue unscathed.

  “I think it’s rather appropriate,” she replied, still panting and trembling from the aftershocks of her recent battle. Blood streamed from a wound on her arm, and she saw Iscariot’s eyes stray there, saw the way his mouth tightened. “All things considered.”

  Somehow, she still held her stake. She took comfort in its smooth familiarity. One unexpected lunge, one well-placed thrust, and he was done. The confusion and dreaminess from swimming upstream through the ghostlike people had faded, but the presence of undead lingered as Iscariot’s minions surrounded both of them. Watching.

  And as she faced him, every other distraction disappeared into the periphery. She tightened her grip on the stake.

  “Don’t bother with that,” said Iscariot, focusing his glowing eyes on her weapon. “You won’t need it…yet.”

  Macey looked away a heartbeat too late as he swung his gaze sharply up and to hers. Instantly, she felt the shimmering waver of their gazes locking, his eyes immediately tugging at her and luring her into the muzzy-headed lull that would lead to her demise. She kept her fingers tight on her weapon, her feet planted solidly on the ground, and fought to tear her eyes from his.

  “Vioget tried to do it himself,” said Iscariot. He sounded a long way away. “Earlier this evening. But, of course, he didn’t succeed…”

  Dreamlike, Macey found herself reaching toward her abdomen, her fingers crawling slowly over her belly. It was a battle for even the scarcest bit of movement, curbed as she was by Iscariot’s thrall. But when she got there at last and touched her vis bulla, even through the thin linen of her blouse, there was an answering surge of power. It shuttled through her, and, energized, she tore her gaze from Iscariot’s. Without hesitation, she leapt toward him, arm raised in a vicious thrust.

  She slammed into the vampire, full body against his tall, slender, muscular one…but he twisted at the last minute and her stake plunged into his shoulder as their bodies collided. They tumbled to the ground, falling onto a row of plush seats, grasping and grappling with the other.

  Macey’s stake was knocked from her hand, and she dimly heard it rolling toward the stage as Iscariot raked his sharp nails down along her arm. The linen split and so did her skin in a searing hot pain. Her blood burst forth as she twisted away, somersaulting over one of the seats, her arm burning.

  By the time she landed on her feet, she had a second stake in hand and was half crouched, waiting for the next attack.

  “Oh, don’t let’s belabor all of this,” said Iscariot. He stood near the stage, looking up at where Macey stood, halfway up the aisle. To her satisfaction, she saw that his clothing was askew and he’d lost the pocket handkerchief. He was a little out of breath, and a dark blossom was spreading over the front of his shirt and coat. “I see no reason to play around with you. It’s a waste of time and effort, and the result will be the same. Still, I expect you to provide me with a good bit of entertainment.”

  “Isn’t that just like you, Nicholas,” she panted, swiping at the blood streaming from her arm. “Always walking away from a fight. I must frighten the hell out of you.”

  The verbal mark clearly struck home, for his eyes flared richly hot and red, and even from her distance, Macey could see the telltale ring of blue around his irises. Only Judas Iscariot’s children had that eerie blue glow. It was evidence of their great and terrible power.

  “And you aren’t brave enough to take me on all by yourself, either,” she said, gesturing to the hulking figures of his undead companions. They stood and sat about in the theater as if about to watch the feature. “You can’t handle me.”

  “I don’t have the time or inclination to waste
matching wits or stakes with you, my lovely Venator. But I did promise some amusement for my people—and since you managed to set free their meals and entertainment already, it’s up to you to provide the show. The others,” he said, flicking his wrist—and suddenly a few of the silvery-gray spirits dressed in twenty-year-old fashion were back, hovering around him as if they’d been summoned. “They were just a little experiment of mine. I quite liked how it turned out, but perhaps they need a little refining. They do have a rather chilly ambience, don’t they?” He moved his hand again, and the phantoms evaporated into small wisps of smoke.

  From the corner of her eye, Macey saw an undead moving stealthily toward her from behind. Without turning her head, she grabbed the nearest seat and used the height to pivot toward the vampire. Poof! The stake met its mark and the curiosity seeker was gone.

  Iscariot didn’t seem to mind. Instead, he was looking out into the darkness, beckoning with a slender white hand. “Now, don’t be concerned I’m expecting you to carry the show all on your own, Macey Gardella. That wouldn’t be fair now, would it?”

  He’d stepped onto the stage, and a spotlight blinked on, shining down on him. Something moved in the shadows, and as Macey watched with growing apprehension, a long rope descended from the catwalk above. Something—no, someone—dangled from the end of the rope. Another light came on, but even before it illuminated the figure, Macey had recognized it.

  Him. Grady.

  It took every bit of control she had to keep still and quiet, to not react—although everything inside her screamed Nooooo. Her very muscles, her thoughts, her limbs and digits—everything shrieked at her to leap down there, to vault over the chairs and launch herself onto the stage in a blaze of fury and horror and protect him. Save him.

  But she didn’t. Instead, she stood there. Waiting. Observing. Forcing herself to keep her mind clear and open and ready. Because surely that was precisely what Iscariot wanted her to do: to attack. To protect. To spin into action without thinking.

  She couldn’t tell whether Grady was conscious. She did see blood…staining his throat and the open front of his shirt, which was coatless, untucked, and torn. He hung from his wrists, which were tied together with thick ropes. His head sagged forward a little, and his feet didn’t quite touch the ground.

  He didn’t move. There was no sign of breathing or struggle from him.

  Macey turned her attention to Iscariot, careful not to meet his eyes directly but with enough boldness that he knew she was not cowed.

  “Is that it?” she asked. “You’ve got a single, measly mortal man that, presumably, you want me to save? If he isn’t past saving already. That’s all you’ve got to offer in the form of entertainment, Nicholas? Why don’t you and I go a few rounds instead—you and me, without your goons to protect you? That would be a sell-out performance.”

  She was walking toward him down the aisle, toward the stage where her stake had rolled, figuring that the closer she got to Grady, the easier it would be to help him…whenever the opportunity arose. “Why should I even try to free him?” She nodded to Grady. “For all I know, you’ve already turned him undead…which means there’s no sense in my exerting myself anyway. He’s already lost.”

  She was five, maybe six rows from the stage now. She didn’t see her other stake, but it had to be nearby.

  A few vampires had moved closer to her, but none of them appeared ready to pounce. Some even chose seats, as if to watch the outcome. That made her a little nervous.

  Iscariot smiled, and the pure glee in his expression was what frightened Macey more than anything else. “Never fear, my sweet Venator. He’s quite alive, and still very mortal.” He walked over to Grady. “Let the lovely Venator bitch know you’re still alive,” Iscariot said, grabbing a handful of hair to lift Grady’s head. “So she knows you’re worth fighting for.”

  Grady shifted and moaned, and Macey saw his eyes fluttering. She also watched carefully, for, thanks to her wayward stake, Iscariot was bleeding profusely from the shoulder. Grady didn’t seem to notice or be attracted to the fresh blood, which she took as a good sign.

  So far.

  “Now,” said Iscariot. “Perhaps a bit of an hors d’oeuvre is in order?” He bared his fangs and plunged them viciously into the outside of Grady’s upthrust arm.

  Macey’s insides surged as Grady jolted, and his eyes flew open, wide with shock and pain. She resisted the desire to rush forward and tear Iscariot away, for surely that was what he wanted. Surely there was some sort of threat or trap waiting for her. Surely that was what he hoped for…what he’d planned.

  But Grady… Oh, Grady. Oh, God, oh, God…

  She had to hold herself rigid and still and unmoving, watching and waiting even as her insides churned and wept as Grady jolted and struggled, trembling and groaning as Iscariot drew from his veins.

  Even when the master vampire, clearly annoyed, beckoned another vampire to join him on the stage and drive his fangs into Grady’s other arm, she remained still, waiting, terrified she would make the wrong decision.

  But when Iscariot gestured for a third undead to join them, Macey couldn’t hold back any longer. “Stop! All right, stop!”

  She was onstage—damn the risk, whatever it was—slamming her stake into a nearby vampire on the way in a moment of frustration. “Let him go. I’ll do whatever you want. Just let him go.” Furious at the sob that caught in her throat, Macey bared her teeth like a feral cat and lunged recklessly at Iscariot once more.

  She was halted in mid-leap, thrown to the ground in a violent sweep from behind. Her head slammed into the wooden stage, bouncing twice before strong hands dragged her upright.

  Three of them—there were three of them needed to subdue her, so wildly did she fight them.

  “It’s always a pleasure to watch a Venator in action,” Iscariot said playfully. “Did I not promise you some fine entertainment?” he added, speaking to his audience of undead. There was a smattering of applause and a few catcalls.

  “I’m here. You have me. What is it you want?” Macey said. Her head throbbed and her whole body ached. The scent of blood and undead ash filled her nostrils.

  “I have a little task for you. Actually, two of them. And then after that…well, I see no reason you can’t go about your business.” He smiled lazily. “But first, we must set the stage, so to speak. I must prepare the…er…warrior, shall we say?”

  He approached her with raw heat in his eyes. “Hold her.”

  The vampires complied, brutal and fierce, pinning her into place: one behind, gripping her wrists in a numbing vise that forced her to drop the stake, and one on either side, holding her at the ankles. Macey couldn’t move except for the heaving of her torso.

  Iscariot took his time unbuttoning her shirt as she panted in front of him. “I hate to ruin a good blouse,” he explained.

  One button, two, then three. Four.

  “Ah!” Iscariot stepped back sharply at the sight of the large silver cross—the one that had marked his cheek—she’d tucked down inside her blouse. She shifted her shoulders suddenly and the cross swung around, bumping into one of the vampires who stood next to her.

  He shrieked and fell back, holding his arm. The other two kept their grip, but barely, easing back from her and the holy relic while still holding her by the ankles. Her arms were free, but she remained unmoving, conscious that Grady’s safety was still at risk.

  “We can’t do with this, now, can we.” Iscariot’s brow furrowed, then relaxed as he turned to Grady. “Release the mortal.”

  Macey felt a surge of hope as Grady’s bound wrists were unfastened from the hanging rope, but Iscariot was taking no chances in releasing him, for he instructed that they were to stay tied.

  “Remove the cross.”

  Macey didn’t know whether Grady had the strength to comply, or whether he even comprehended the instructions. But when he drew nearer, walking unsteadily and slowly, he lifted his face slightly. Their eyes met and she felt a r
ush of…something. It shocked her, burrowing deep inside. And she let out her breath because though there was pain, real, deep pain, in his sea-blue eyes—pain and horror—there was also lucidity and determination and strength.

  Please let him be all right.

  “Grady,” she whispered when he was close enough to hear. “Keep it. Use it.” She wanted to say something more…much more…but she dared not.

  He gave a bare nod, then had to step around behind her to unclasp the necklace, for his hands were still bound at the wrists. For a moment, as he stood there behind her, tall and so very near, his fingers working slowly to unseat the cross’s hook, she closed her eyes and reveled in his presence…and then hated herself for wanting his comfort. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

  She wished to sag backward, just enough to touch him, just enough that he could feel her and she could feel him.

  The weight of the cross sagged lower as the chain loosened, then Grady came back around to face her as he gathered up the pendant. He said something, muttered something she couldn’t understand, and before he could repeat it or she could respond or tell him she was sorry, the vampires were back at her in full force, dragging her away from him.

  She struggled. But she no longer had any weapon she could get to, nothing that would help except the small, delicate rosary she’d tucked deep inside her corset simply to have it with her.

  Grady, go, she thought fiercely. Get out of here. In the dark melee that was her world, she could no longer see him, but she sent the thoughts with every bit of her being.

  “Now, where were we?” Iscariot approached again as she was once more forced into immobility. He yanked at her blouse so it bared one shoulder. The shirt hung open now, exposing her flimsy laced-up undergarment…and the stripe of a scar disappearing down behind it, along her sternum.

  “I can see how incredibly pleased you—or at least your lovely body is—to see me,” said Iscariot, tracing a finger over the fresh blood. With rough hands, he tore open the top two inches of the corset, revealing more of the scar and a swell of breast. His fangs were long and ready, seeming to vibrate with need as he leaned closer. “Your blood—it knows me, doesn’t it?”