Now all she had was Chas—and much as she cared for him, Macey knew he was just as damaged as she herself was. He was searching in the same way, too—and was just as lonely, just as solitary.
Just as angry.
And he didn’t even belong here, in Chicago or in 1926. He’d been “transferred” to this time and place several years ago with the help of Wayren. So his very presence here felt frighteningly transitory.
Macey wasn’t Catholic, but she genuflected nevertheless—because that felt like the right thing to do—then settled in a pew about a third of the way from the back.
She looked around aimlessly and realized she was waiting for something to happen. At the same time, she fought the sense of bewilderment and fear that had come over her since her dream two nights ago. Every time she thought about that nightmare-turned-real, her hands went cold and her stomach churned.
How could Iscariot have such a hold over her? How could he have drawn blood in a dream?
Months ago, during their first encounter, he’d fed on her in an automobile—rough and violent—while his goons held her down by the wrists and ankles in the back seat of the car. That was when he sliced into her skin with his dagger: tearing through her dress, her undergarments, and her flesh, and circling one breast as well. But those scars had healed, as had his bites, thanks in part to Chas’s application of salted holy water.
When Macey faced Iscariot again a few weeks ago in the city morgue and seared him with her cross, he’d somehow managed to make her bleed again from the same healed scars…but he’d been there, in person. That alone had been frightening.
But now he’d done it again, in a dream.
How? And what did it mean?
She wasn’t certain she really wanted to know. She was a Venator, a vampire hunter descended from the most powerful ones who ever lived. She was skilled, strong, smart—and had been chosen for this life. It was her vocation. She was made for this.
Yet the slick, evil Nicholas Iscariot terrified her—mainly because no one seemed to comprehend the depths of his power. His abilities seemed to be beyond what other vampires had ever been capable.
And more importantly, more frightening of all, was how he would use that power to get the rings.
How many innocent people—ones she knew and loved, ones she had never met—would die or be mauled before this was resolved?
What perhaps concerned her the most was that, other than his appearance in her dream, as of late, Iscariot had been all but invisible in Chicago. If she didn’t know better, she might have thought he’d left.
There’d been no major vampire attacks—there were always random ones, of course, like there were muggings on dark street corners, but in this case with blood and fangs, but nothing terribly newsworthy. Nothing that gave her a clue what to expect next, or even anything to focus on.
Macey felt as if she were simply waiting for Iscariot to make the next move—just as she was waiting in this church for something to happen.
Neither thought sat well with her at all.
That had to change.
She would make it change.
She would do something.
She would turn the battle into one she controlled.
Macey was drawn sharply from her thoughts at the sound of a kneeler being raised into place with a soft thump. The other person in the church rose and walked along the pew, clearly ready to take his leave.
It wasn’t until he’d turned down the aisle and was nearly to her pew that she recognized him in the dimness.
“Chas. What are you doing here?” She met her friend in the aisle.
“What do you think I’m doing?” he replied with a sting of irony that told her he probably had been praying. He was such an oxymoron of a man.
“I thought you might be here to check on the rings. Maybe try them on?” She was only half teasing. No one had tried on the five rings since Sebastian left them, for there was the chance the bands would seal to their fingers as they’d done to Sebastian’s for a century.
“Right. I offered to do it previously, you recall. To wear them, and to go to the pool at Munții Făgăraș.”
“But Wayren declined your offer.” She looked up at him, trying to read his expression. “So maybe you were tempted to try it anyway.” It wasn’t as if the thought hadn’t occurred to her as well.
He inclined his head. “I wouldn’t presume to argue with Wayren. I mean that,” he added when she lifted her brow to give him a sardonic look. “Wayren is…” He trailed off, and Macey was struck by the bald sincerity in his voice. It was in his eyes as well. “She’s the closest thing we have to perfection.”
She couldn’t argue with that, but it didn’t mean she had a lack of questions for the mysterious woman.
“We need to find a way into Iscariot’s den,” Macey said, formulating into words her most terrifying and determined thoughts. She started to walk down the aisle, to the back of the church. “Because that’s the only way to catch him by surprise and destroy him.”
Chas lifted a brow as he walked along with her. “Bold and brassy. I like it. But never say you think you’ll just waltz right in and stake the bastard.”
She rolled her eyes. “First we have to find where said bastard is hiding before I can waltz right in and then stake him.”
“This might help.” He produced a folded newspaper, and it smelled of fresh ink.
The evening edition of the Chicago Tribune. And on the front page, dominating half above the fold, was a huge photograph of Nicholas Iscariot.
THREE
~ The Gauntlet is Thrown ~
For the most part, Macey had come to avoid reading the Tribune. Every time she saw the byline J. Grady next to a story—and there had been more and more of them lately as he became more and more successful—her heart hurt.
The last piece she’d read with his name on it was a front-page report of Harry Houdini’s funeral. The escape artist and magician, who died in a Detroit hospital after a show, had been a friend and mentor to Grady. The sorrow and grief over the loss of his friend had come through in the prose, despite the fact that it was a journalistic piece.
At least he wasn’t also feeling sorrow and grief over losing Macey—because he didn’t even remember her, thanks to Wayren and the small golden disk Macey had asked her to employ.
Now, she looked down at the folded paper Chas thrust at her, stepping under one of the sconces in the church to better examine the story. The front page was dominated by a huge photograph of the beaming Nicholas Iscariot shaking hands with Mayor Dever, and flanked on the other side by Colonel McCormick, the Trib’s editor in chief. Macey automatically glanced at the byline. Her heart sank.
J. Grady.
So her favorite newshawk had been there. He’d seen, spoken to, and interviewed Iscariot.
And Iscariot knew who he was.
While Grady, though he’d been imprisoned by the vampires and tortured by Iscariot only weeks ago, would have no idea who the other man was.
All because of her.
Trepidation stabbed her as she looked down at the photo, at Iscariot’s arch, patrician features. He was looking out at the camera, staring straight at the viewer with a modest smile. But she saw the truth through it and read the underlying evil and satisfaction burning in the curl of his lips and the glint in his eyes. It was as if he were looking directly at Macey, tossing the challenge at her feet.
Waiting for her to figure out his plan.
Italian Baron Graces Chicago, read the headline. The subhead gave more information: Nicholas, the Baron Politano, newly arrived from Rome, debuts into society at Cardinal Ball.
She let her arm fall, allowing the paper to drop away, and looked up at Chas. He was watching her with eyes that were too intuitive for her comfort.
She gritted her teeth and collected her thoughts. She focused on fury, duty, and determination—and immediately felt powerful. “Well, at least he should be easier to find, now that he’s debuted into society. A
ren’t young ladies supposed to be debutantes—not barons?” she sneered.
“That’s the way it used to be, back in my day,” Chas replied. But he was still watching her carefully.
Macey shoved the paper back at him and pulled out the stake she’d tucked into a garter beneath her frock. “Let’s go. I’m in the mood for a fight.”
“That’s the best thing I’ve heard you say in a while.” His eyes lit with appreciation. “Let’s dust some vamps.”
+ + +
“Tie it like you mean it,” Grady said. “Even you could get out of these. They have to be tighter.”
Detective Jameson Linwood, who was still eternally grateful for the fact that he’d somehow recovered from a near-death attack a few weeks ago, frowned at the insult. Nevertheless, he tugged at the ropes digging into his nephew’s wrists. The daft kid’s fingers were already starting to turn grayish white. “It’s already cutting off your blood, you damned fool.”
“Be that as it may, but Houdini never complained about that. I tell you, make them tighter.” Grady, who was facing him, lifted his bound wrists impatiently toward Linwood. “Come on. You’re a cop—pretend I’m one of your most dangerous perpetrators and you don’t want me slipping off into the night like an eel.”
“You’re no damned Houdini, and if you don’t be taking care, you’re gonna get yourself killed, Grady m’boy,” he grumbled. Nonetheless, he did as he’d been told and retied the ropes with every bit of strength he owned, rolling his eyes when the nephew grunted with pain at the new onslaught.
At least he was here to release the fool when it became necessary.
“If I can live through the dirty, murderous streets of Dublin, I can live through a few tight ropes. Besides, Harry taught me a lot—and once you learn the techniques and obtain the tools, it’s just practice. A lot of…practice. And…mastery of the…body.” Grady’s words were uneven, due to the pain and discomfort that was surely throbbing in his arms and numbing his hands.
“So you say. I hope you ain’t planning on taking this act on the road, boyo. Is that tight enough for you, y’foolish mick?”
“It’ll do,” was the reply.
“And now you want me to do what?” Linwood asked, looking balefully at the coffin-sized box in the center of Grady’s living room. It had arrived not long after Harry Houdini died—a bequest from the escape artist for his protégé. That, and seven crates of books from Houdini’s personal library.
“Stuff me in there, tie my ankles the same way—then lock it up.”
“Next thing, you’ll be wanting me to throw it in the river,” Linwood mumbled, helping his nephew to climb inside. “With you inside.”
“And then chain it closed with that padlock over there.”
“What in the bloody hell are you talking about? You’re never going to get out of there.” He examined the box. “Hell. At least you’ve got yourself air holes.”
“That’ll be the next phase.” Grady grunted as the ropes were yanked tight around his ankles. “Filling those in so I can do it underwater. Once I get—this—down.”
Muttering curse words alternated with prayers for the improvement of his nephew’s mental capacity, Linwood did as directed. At least he’d be able to relax and have a nice spot of whiskey while his blarney-brained boy thrashed around inside a coffin for a bit.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, he didn’t know what was wrong with the kid lately. Well, he wasn’t actually a kid, Linwood admitted as he fit the top over the coffin. Grady was coming on to thirty years of age, and had lived a more harrowing life than even Linwood had done since becoming a cop in gangster-infested Chicago. No doubt about it: the boy was lucky to be alive, no thanks to Linwood’s miserable sister.
“Remember to time me,” came the muffled voice from inside, followed by a thump. “Use the stopwatch.”
“Right.” Linwood looked down at his handiwork—at the padlock hanging near the edge of the coffin, of the chains wrapping it like a Christmas present. (That thought brought back to mind the memory of his wife, Camilla, and the way she’d make him use his finger to hold the ribbon in place as she tied them in this very room. Ah, Lord, he missed her.)
“Did you start the timer?”
“Yes, yes, I did,” Linwood said. That was a little white lie, for he’d glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantel after he set the coffin lid in place. He didn’t see any need to start the stopwatch. Even if Grady did manage the impossible, who cared whether it took twenty minutes and five seconds or twenty minutes and fifteen seconds?
He turned and wandered into the kitchen where he knew his nephew, like the good Irish Catholic boy he was, kept a fine bottle of whiskey beneath a loose floorboard.
Linwood poured two fingers of the liquid amber, then splashed in a third one to help wash away the memory of Camilla, and looked out the window.
The house—the one he’d lived in with his wife until she was gunned down in the crossfire of two feuding gangsters and he realized he needed a change of scenery—overlooked a small park. As it was May, even though it was nearly eight o’clock, the sun still cast a welcome light over the swings and climbing bars below. All were in use, and he felt a twinge of sorrow that he and Camilla had never had children. Grady was as close as they’d come, and they hadn’t even met him until he came to Chicago after the war.
That in itself had been Divine Providence if it ever was, and Linwood gave thanks every day for bringing the boy—who had never even been a boy as long as he’d known him—into his life. It was miraculous, truly, for, thanks to his mad, deeply disturbed sister’s elopement and disappearance, Linwood hadn’t even realized Grady existed until the boy looked him up in Chicago.
He didn’t know what he’d do without him.
He rested his glass on the windowsill so he could take out his handkerchief and blow his nose. Boy needed to dust his damned house once in a while.
When he looked down to pick up his drink again, he noticed something most curious. Crosses, carved into the wood, there on the sill. Three of them. They were filled with something metallic, something shiny. Like silver?
Linwood frowned. They certainly hadn’t been there when he’d lived here. What a strange thing to do.
His attention strayed to the kitchen counter, where Grady had set his pocket watch along with the signet ring he’d been wearing. The ring was silver. And come to think of it, it was a relatively recent addition to his nephew’s wardrobe. A silver ring. And silver crosses set in the windowsill.
What was the boy up to?
He heard a rattle and a thump from the other room and grinned to himself, picturing the blarney-brain kicking ineffectively at the coffin from inside. A glance at the kitchen clock told him Grady’d been messing around in there for less than four minutes. I’ll give him another five or so before I check on him.
“Got some of that for me?”
Linwood nearly dropped his glass—which would have been a waste—and whirled. He couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw his nephew standing there, rubbing his wrists, wearing a very smug expression.
“Holy Mother of God,” was all he could say.
By now, Grady’s smugness had exploded into a delighted grin as he held out a tangle of ropes.
To be honest, Linwood was happy to see such a carefree expression on the man’s face, for the last few weeks had been dark ones. It was as if something had happened to change the easygoing yet determined Grady into someone withdrawn, irritable, and frustrated. He’d been the kind of man who could charm the knickers off a nun and have her apologize for taking so long to pull ’em down, but lately, things had been different.
Ever since Linwood had come home from the hospital, in fact.
Part of Grady’s change was due to his uncle’s near-fatal injuries, he knew, as well as the shocking death of Harry Houdini. But Linwood sensed something else was wrong with his nephew.
He’d tried to ask about it, even probed a little about the sweet little colleen he’d been seeing
—Macey was her name, he thought, and she had beautiful, dark eyes—but Grady had simply acted as if he didn’t know what Linwood was talking about. He looked at his uncle as if he’d lost a few marbles, to be honest.
Maybe he had been confused himself.
After all, that attack—some of the details of which were still murky in his mind—had really set him back. They’d given him a lot of medication in the hospital, and everything before and during his recovery was fuzzy.
Linwood still wasn’t completely back to normal—though he’d gone back on the beat—and his scars had been slow to heal. Grady wouldn’t talk much about what happened either, even when Linwood tried to resurrect their theory that vampires had been involved.
Both he and his nephew had long shared a belief in the existence of vampires, for they’d seen evidence in attacks occurring in Chicago for years. And even if they hadn’t, after Linwood’s near-death at the hands of red-eyed men with fangs, he, at least, had no choice but to believe in the undead.
But Grady had become reticent about it. He didn’t actually deny their discussions, but he didn’t engage in them as he had done in the past.
Still. There were the silver crosses embedded in the windowsill. And Linwood sure as hell hadn’t put them there.
“How long did I take?” Grady demanded, dragging Linwood’s attention back to him. He picked up the ring on the counter and replaced it on his finger.
“Uh…” Linwood scrambled around in his brain, looking at the clock and calculating.
“You didn’t use the stopwatch,” his nephew accused, picking it up. “Why not?”
Linwood shrugged. “I figured I’d be unlocking the bleeding thing and it wouldn’t matter.”
Grady shook his head. “Oh ye of little faith. Now how am I going to know if I’m faster next time?”
“You’re going to do it again?” Linwood asked.
Someone knocked on the door, and they both turned. It was eight at night, and Grady—being a top investigative reporter—had a telephone installed so he could be called for any urgent stories instead of wasting time for a courier to arrive. So the visitor probably wasn’t from the Trib.
Roaring Dawn: Macey Book 3 (The Gardella Vampire Hunters 10) Page 3
