His belly felt sour and empty, and he really, really wished for a bloody whiskey.
Wayren reached across the table and closed her small, slender hands over his large, rough ones. For being so slight, they were incredibly warm and strong. “You’ll do the right thing, Max. You always do…even if you do come to it a little later than one might hope.”
He looked up at her, shocked to find a glint of humor and reproach in her eyes. Ah yes…the not-so-subtle reminder that he’d ignored his daughter for thirteen years.
Well, not precisely ignored her. He knew she was better protected than the bloody Crown Jewels and well taken care of, but he also didn’t want there to be any chance someone might trace her through him. So he’d remained firmly out of touch and studiously ignorant of everything about her…until the first letter he wrote. The letter he sweated and bled over, dragging every word from deep within.
The letter, which, by the way, was never delivered, thanks to bloody Alphonsus Capone.
“Would you mind if we talked about something else?” he said. “For example, something I might actually know how to damn—er, handle?”
“Such as the dauntless one?”
This had Max sitting up straight. “Yes. Who did Rosamunde mean by the dauntless one? I have my suspicions, of course, but I’d like confirmation.”
Wayren lifted her brows, both of them this time. An enigmatic smile touched her lips, but she didn’t speak.
He ground his teeth. “You aren’t going to tell me anything, are you?”
She shook her head, her eyes dancing at his consternation. Perhaps she was the third woman who was out to get him. “The prophecy will be what it will be; it’s not for you—or anyone—to try and make it happen.”
“Then why do we even have the damn—the blasted things anyway?”
“For guidance and warning. But not for a blueprint. Not for a path on which one insists upon riding, without listening to one’s own intuition and intelligence.”
“Right.” He realized she’d removed her hands from covering his, and had taken with them the innate peace that always flowed through her touch.
“I’ve seen Chas,” she said.
“You didn’t tell him I’m here, did you?”
Now Wayren gave him a pitying look. “Really, Max, how long are you going to insist on lurking about Chicago without making yourself known?”
He glowered, then scanned the room over her shoulder again. “It’s only right for Macey to be the first to know I’m here.”
“I think that’s an excellent plan, Max. Quite brave of you, in fact.”
His gaze flew to hers, but she merely gave him that benign smile and continued, “You can count on my support in that matter. However, I suggest you don’t wait too long to reveal yourself. Someone like you won’t remain anonymous in this city for long.”
“So you won’t let on that I’m here? To anyone?”
“I won’t.”
“But…?”
Wayren did not seem to be able to contain her sense of humor tonight, for her eyes were glinting again. “You should probably know that Macey attended the photography exhibit tonight.”
Max felt the color drain from his face. “She did? She was…at…the same place Savina was?” His lips could hardly form the words. But worse than that, his brain couldn’t even handle the implications of what would happen if Macey and Savina should…meet.
Oh God.
Meet, and talk to each other, and realize who the other was…
Oh God.
If that happened, he was well and truly fu—
Blast it. He couldn’t even think a vulgar word in Wayren’s presence.
He looked up to find her watching him. “I really need a drink.”
“No,” she replied firmly. “You need to find your daughter.”
SEVEN
~ A Discourse Against the 18th Amendment ~
Chas slogged into The Silver Chalice two hours before dawn—cold, wet, and grumpy as hell.
Mainly because what he’d hoped would happen—that he’d be struck off the earth by one of the violent bolts of lightning tearing through the city—hadn’t occurred.
Damn. And so I’ll live to see another day.
To his surprise, the pub was dark and still, and it wasn’t yet dawn—though the clouds were so thick and heavy, who knew when the sun would be able to shine through anyway. A small lamp burned near the entrance through which he’d come, and there was another light at the door leading to the private apartments in back.
It seemed the place had closed early last night—probably because the weather was abysmal, and the customers had stayed in their warm homes instead of braving the wild thunderstorms for illegal libation.
Fine with him. And even finer with him that Macey and Temple weren’t around either. He didn’t want to deal with anyone tonight. Or, rather, this morning.
Chas peeled off his dripping coat and flung it onto one of the stools, removed his shoes and socks, then unfastened the top button of his shirt—which wasn’t as soaked as his outer layers. He gave his head a good shake, spraying droplets everywhere, then found a bar towel to scrub away more of the wet from his hair.
Feeling marginally more comfortable, he turned on a light over the counter and slipped behind to fish out a glass and a bottle of something smooth to warm him from the inside out. He paused with his hand over a decent brandy and frowned at the racks of glasses.
Macey had pulled out that special bottle of Sebastian’s from right about this area. She probably thought Chas hadn’t noticed, but he’d been listening very carefully to where and how she moved.
Thus, it didn’t take him more than a few seconds to locate the secret door behind a shelf of lowballs, and he smirked with satisfaction when he opened it.
Hmm. A lead safe? What the hell was Sebastian hiding in here—other than not one, but three bottles of that unique liqueur? Chas felt around inside the safe and didn’t find anything else important enough to be locked away like that.
Still musing, he pulled out the open bottle and removed the fancy blue-black stopper, then sloshed a good two fingers into his glass. Back a hundred years ago, when Chas lived in London and traveled to Paris hunting undead and befriending the (occasionally) redeemable members of the Draculia vampire race, Chas had once mistakenly taken a drink from a bottle of liquor offered by a Dracule.
Unfortunately, it had been blood whiskey, and the memory had never quite left him. He still shuddered at the memory.
But this wasn’t blood whiskey, and Sebastian Vioget hadn’t been a Dracule—so why had he kept this and two other bottles locked away?
Simply so Chas wouldn’t get to it? Or anyone else, for that matter?
Considering the fact that he’d never tasted anything like its soft, floral ambrosia that nevertheless burned in a smooth, heady rush all down the throat and into the belly—then softened the mind in just the right way—Chas supposed it was merely practical to keep the good stuff hidden away. It probably cost a ridiculous amount of money, even for a vampire, and especially during the insult that was Prohibition.
He corked the bottle and stuck it back inside the safe, then enjoyed his solitude and his drink as he leaned into a corner of the bar.
He sure as hell was ready to be done with Chicago, and gangsters, and flapper dresses that made all the female figures look like boys’ bodies—and he was especially finished with Prohibition. Not that the Volstead Act kept him from imbibing when he wanted, but it was damned inconvenient.
And everything else…well, he was tired of it all. He understood how Sebastian had felt, ready to finish with whatever had brought him to this place. And Chas, unlike Vioget, had literally been brought here. Through time.
What he didn’t know, still didn’t know, five years later, was why.
Yes, he’d wanted an escape from everything that had happened with Narcise. And, unbelievably, Wayren had offered him a unique way out. But why here? Why now?
He s
hook his head and was just reaching down of the bottle to refill his glass for the third time when someone rattled at the door.
“We’re closed!” he called, then frowned. What if it was Macey out there, bedraggled and wet? He wasn’t certain she was here; they hadn’t gone out together hunting tonight. His frown turned grimmer.
After what had happened in the alley two nights ago…well, she probably was avoiding him as much as he was avoiding her.
The door rattled again, and with a curse he shoved the bottle back into the safe (in case it was Temple) and went to see who the bloody hell was so insistent. As he approached, he realized something he’d somehow ignored or submerged deep in his grumbly consciousness: a vampire was present.
Chas was in just enough of a foul mood to fling the door open regardless of whoever might be on the other side. The drink sloshed over his hand as a result of the effort, and he glowered at the huddled figure standing there.
He couldn’t make out a gender, but it was only one person, and his sensation measuring the proximity of undead indicated there weren’t anymore other than this one.
“Well, come in,” he said, checking to make certain a stake was still present in his pocket. Just in case. “Don’t think I’ve ever heard of a vampire drowning before, but it’s raining enough that you just damned well might.”
“Didn’t they attempt to drown Rasputin?”
It was a woman, with a vaguely familiar voice, and when she drew back the hooded jacket to reveal her face, Chas recognized her immediately.
The tall, skin-and-bones redhead had once been a friend of Macey’s. Freda…no, Flora. Flora was her name.
“They did. Unsuccessfully—after, I believe, also trying to shoot him. More than once. Well, come in and take that off. No need to be bloody dripping all over the place.”
She gave him a curious glance, but stepped over the threshold as she pulled off her sodden jacket. Then she hung it on a hook near the door and turned to face him. She was wearing a bright yellow dress that glittered, implying she’d come from somewhere fancy. In the center was a rust-colored stain that had Chas’s brows lifting. “Thank you. I was hoping Macey was here.”
“She’s not.”
Flora raked her eyes over him from head to toe, and she had the temerity to let a sensual glow light her eyes when she did.
“That’ll be enough of that,” he said, firmly ignoring a tiny flicker of lust.
She giggled and slid onto a stool without being asked, flashing him a sultry look. “I was just checking to see if you were interested. Your reputation is quite profound.”
“My reputation with a stake, you mean.”
“Your stake?” Her eyes narrowed with delight, and now they were glowing fully red. She ran the tip of her bold red tongue over her exposed fangs. “That’s one way to put it.”
“What do you want?” he asked, putting the counter between himself and her. More for her safety than his own.
“How about we start with whatever you’re drinking.” She glanced at his half-empty glass.
“How about we don’t.” He pulled out his weapon and showed her. “I should probably just put you out of your misery—save Macey the damned trouble.”
“She can’t do it herself,” Flora said—as if they were discussing whether their mutual acquaintance could pilot a plane. “She’s had ample opportunities—including tonight. She can’t kill me.”
Flora settled back onto the stool, folding her arms beneath her breasts and the stain from Macey’s obviously aborted attempt to stake her. “From what I understand, your habit is such that you…uh…tend to enjoy a woman like me”—she smiled, showing off her fangs and that slick red tongue again—“with one type of stake…and then employ your other stake in a different way.”
Chas was feeling a little unsteadier than he liked. Was this supposed to be a seduction? It wasn’t working. Not much, anyway. “I’m not interested.”
“We could have some fun together, you know, Chas. Don’t think I don’t know about your darling Narcise. The story’s legendary. Aren’t you ready for a permanent replacement for her?”
It was all he could do to keep from plunging the stake into her breastbone…and later he was to wonder what kept him from doing it. Boredom? Complacency? Curiosity?
“There will never be a replacement for Narcise.”
The flat anger in his voice seemed to shock Flora out of her fey mood.
“Fine.” She sat straight up and slammed her hands on the counter. “What a stick-in-the-mud. At least pour me a drink, will you?”
“What are you doing here—besides making me want to screw this stake into your heart?”
“Macey said…a while ago…she said she would help me. Find a way to”—she flapped her hand at herself—“change this. Fix me. Save me.”
“And so that’s why you’re here—flashing your fangs and burning your eyes—because you want to be saved?” His derisive laughter was directed toward himself as much as Flora…because he hadn’t been completely immune to her flirtations and the tug of her thrall. The promise of those fangs and slick tongue combined with soft female curves and rich musk.
Damn, there were days he hated himself as much as he hated the devil.
“Yes. It really is why I’m here. I can’t help the way I am,” she said earnestly. Her blue eyes opened large and didn’t hold a flicker of red glow. “I saw her last night, and we didn’t get to finish talking.”
Chas sighed and leaned down to pull out the bottle from the safe. “I don’t know that there’s any way to…well, put you back.”
“But it has hap…pened.” Flora was staring at the bottle of liqueur. Her breathing had changed into something rough and audible.
He paused from pulling out the stopper, his hand tight on the bottle. “What is it?”
She blinked, still staring at the liqueur. Then she lifted her eyes to him. “What?”
“You tell me.” He kept a good grip on the bottle. Maybe this was why Sebastian had kept it locked away in the lead-lined safe—for clearly, something about the bottle or its contents was of interest to Flora.
“I was saying…it has happened before. Undead have changed back, haven’t they?” She was no longer looking at the bottle, but beseechingly up at him.
“Not those like you, of Judas Iscariot’s breed,” replied Chas, still watching her carefully. Tension was rolling off her, practically lighting up the air. “I’ve never known it to happen to one of them.”
“So…are you going to pour me a drink or what?” she snapped.
“No, I don’t think—”
He was ready when she lunged, throwing herself across the counter toward him with her fangs bared and eyes blazing red, and he dodged out of the way.
But the stake he’d set on the counter—carelessly, foolishly—she kicked off as she somersaulted herself over and onto her feet. The weapon rolled to the floor on the opposite side, utterly out of his reach, as he grabbed her by the front of the dress and yanked her the rest of the way over the counter.
Her lithe, strong body was wild and furious, kicking, scratching, grappling. The force of their battle sent them tumbling to the floor in the narrow space behind the counter.
Chas was handicapped, for he still gripped the bottle, protecting it from smashing as he avoided her thrusting fangs while trying to roll out from beneath her in the restricted space. Plus, he’d had more than his share of whiskey, and that made him a little sluggish.
Glasses and bottles crashed down on them, heavy and unyielding, and Flora helped them by grabbing them off the shelves and throwing them down onto him. One round edge smashed into his temple, sending black spots into his eyes and slicing his skin. Chas roared in pain and fury, twisting and bucking up with a powerful movement. He heaved her off, still holding the precious bottle in one hand, and sent her slamming into the underside of the counter.
But it wasn’t the bottle she was after, he realized too late, but the stopper.
For w
hen he lifted her by the front of the dress with one strong hand, she grabbed for the onyx stopper, popping it from the inside of the bottle just as he flung her over the counter and out into the room.
She landed on the ground, somersaulting quickly to her feet, and bolted toward the door. But Chas had realized his mistake, and he vaulted over the counter just in time to leap onto her. They crashed to the floor again, this time rolling into and beneath a table and its upended chairs.
“What…is…it,” he demanded, grabbing her wrist and squeezing hard, trying to get her to drop the stopper.
She bared her fangs and hissed at him, dragging her sharp nails down over his neck and throat, all the while kicking and writhing like a wild person. His blood flew about like sweat, and her eyes blazed hotter with fury and bloodlust.
He had no stake within reach, and he couldn’t release her arm with the stopper, so he concentrated on smashing her head to the floor and rolling around, slamming into the wall and table legs, trying to knock her out of breath.
Then all at once, she went limp and lay beneath him, heaving, her face turned away as if waiting for…something. Some blow, some…something…
“What is it?” he demanded again, holding her wrist so tightly he felt her bones move beneath his fingers.
“How did you get it?” she replied, still turned away, still panting beneath him. “It’s supposed to be in the enchanted pool—”
“Tell me what it—Arghh!” His words were cut off as she lunged up, grabbing one arm and pulling him down as she slammed her fangs into his throat.
Chas arched, tight as a bowstring, unable to fight the flood of pain and pleasure his body craved. He didn’t release her wrist, but by now he felt the warm, pulsing release of blood flowing from his wounds, the soft, angular body of a female beneath him, the strong hand that had him by the arm, holding him in place, the two powerful thighs that wrapped around his waist and locked at the ankles behind him.
It was the same effect as if an opium eater or laudanum addict had given up the habit, the pleasure…and then suddenly, it was thrust upon him or her once again—unexpectedly, and unwillingly.
Roaring Dawn: Macey Book 3 (The Gardella Vampire Hunters 10) Page 8
