“Do you have coffee? Maybe with a shot of something strong in it to warm me up on such a nasty day?” Savina had been raised in Italy, in the midst of the Venators and their subterranean hideaway in Rome, so she’d never quite warmed up to the English preference of tea.
If only she could find someone in Chicago to make a good cappuccino, she’d be much happier.
As she waited for Grady to bring their drinks, Savina’s attention wandered, as it had several times before, over his vast collection of books—a miniature library in and of itself, considering the wide and varied topics they covered. Chemistry, biology, Latin, zoology, history, physics, religion and philosophy—not to mention fiction and biography. And others. There were more shelves and stacks in his bedroom as well.
And then there was the Houdini-type equipment, from the handcuffs and padlocks to a coffin-sized box from which Grady swore he could escape, even if tied or chained.
“I saw Houdini once,” she commented as Grady walked in with—thank God, coffee. Two mismatched cups on their own saucers, clinking on a tray along with a few crackers and a small tub of butter. “In London. He was amazing.”
“Amazing is an understatement,” Grady replied with a smile, taking a seat in an armchair near the dormant fireplace. He glanced at it, then at her. “Should I set a fire?”
“Oh, no, you needn’t go through the trouble. I’m sure you have work to do. Don’t you have a story to turn in, about the exhibit?” Savina already felt guilty that he’d been the one to escort her to the show last night, and that she’d been here all day with nothing to do.
“Oh, I’ve already done that one and turned it in. While you were sleeping last night—to make the Sunday edition. So, like God, today is my day off,” Grady replied with a grin. “Unless something big comes up, of course.”
Grady had been a good sport about taking her to the exhibit, for he was doing a story on it anyway. And fortunately, Savina hadn’t felt one iota of attraction between herself and Grady—and his manner made it clear he didn’t either. Of course, she was a good ten years or more older than he was, so it wasn’t the least bit surprising. Still, it would have been awkward had that not been the case.
Max had insisted it was safer that he not be seen in public until he got a better understanding of what was happening with the undead in Chicago. He was the most recognizable Venator in the world, and if a vampire noticed him prematurely, it could set their plans awry. It was best for Savina to play her role as Sabrina Ellison, and to keep secret her connection with Max Denton.
Of course, that didn’t stop him from slipping into bed with her very early this morning, and gathering her up against his sleek, muscular body—his hair cool and damp from the storm, a fresh aura like the rain itself emanating from his skin, his mouth hot and soft. They hadn’t talked, no, he knew better than that, for he knew she’d ask the questions he didn’t want to answer. But they did other things, and though he left her warm and smiling, her body loose and humming, inside she had a knot of fear for the future. About how much longer she could do this.
She knew he was in contact with Wayren, and hopefully, by now—Savina dearly hoped, for that would go a long way in easing her tension—with his own daughter.
“It’s no bother to make a fire,” Grady said. “You shivered a minute ago.”
Savina smiled at his mistake, but made no move to correct him. “In that case, a fire would be lovely. Thank you.”
“When did you see Houdini? Was he doing his underwater escape act yet?”
“It was before the war—in ’13, in London. The things he did were miraculous, really. Yes, he did the underwater escape—what did he call it? The Chinese Water Torture Trick. They chained him up, then lowered him upside down into a glass-sided container of water. And he got out in less than forty seconds.” Savina had seen it with her own eyes, and yet she still couldn’t believe it. “And I heard he broke out of the most secure jail cell at Scotland Yard. How did he do it? You must know. Max says you were close friends.”
Grady was half turned away from her as he worked at the fireplace, but she could see the rounding of his cheek as he grinned. “I know some of his secrets, yes. In general, it’s a combination of strength and flexibility—did you know he ran at least seven miles a day, every day, from the time he was fourteen? He did stretches and lifted weights, too. And he ate well and slept well. He kept himself in extremely good physical shape.”
Savina was nodding, a smile on her face. Oh, yes, she remembered seeing the Great Houdini remove his robe to reveal a blue bathing suit before being chained up and lowered into the water. The man had been pure, taut muscle. The smooth shape of his pectorals and shoulders had even showed beneath the material of the swimming suit. The women in the audience had swooned privately at the sight of such a masculine specimen while they worried publicly over the dangerous escape he was attempting.
“Being able to dislocate a shoulder helps too, as well as being double-jointed,” Grady said, flashing her a look from over his shoulder. “And he was as flexible as a Far Eastern yogi. But there were other…let’s say techniques…that he employed. Secreting tiny tools on his person, for example, in his hair or mouth. Sometimes his wife Bess”—he laughed softly, shaking his head—“would even pass him a tiny lock pick when she kissed him for good luck. They’re not secrets—any good escape artist knows the basics. But Houdini was the best because he always tried for more, he was in perfect physical condition, he was creative, and above all, he knew how to be a showman. An entertainer.” His shoulders slumped a little, then he reached for another piece of wood. “It’s simply unbelievable that he’s dead, and so suddenly too.”
“It’s a great loss for the world,” Savina agreed.
“Most people don’t know that he wasn’t just an illusionist and escape artist, but that he helped law enforcement in many ways—along with British intelligence and the United States military.”
“That’s how you and Max met, isn’t it? When he was working with the British army.” Max hadn’t been enlisted, of course, for he had his own enemy to fight, but he’d done his patriotic duty in other ways and was allowed to be part of the training.
“Yes, that’s right. We got to be quite good friends during a week-long training with Houdini.” Grady paused in his task of lighting the fire to look at her again. “Max and I would go to the pub after, have a few ales, talk about some of the things Houdini said. Sometimes Harry would even go with us—that was the beginning of how I got to know him so well.
“One time, the two of us were in one of the pubs and Max got up suddenly. He’d been watching this couple sitting at the bar, and he had a sort of intense look on his face. ‘I’ll be right back,’ he told me.
“He walked out the door and I realized he was going after the couple who’d been drinking at the counter. I’d watched the bloke sit down next to a pretty blond woman, and saw how he was getting a little fresh with her. She didn’t seem to mind—in fact, she was flirting right back—but she’d also had plenty to drink. They left together, the woman hardly able to walk except with the man’s arm around her waist.” Grady had a bit of a chagrined look on his face. “I suppose I should have thought to go after them myself, but the way I saw it, she wasn’t protesting and the bloke didn’t seem threatening. Those things happen every night in a pub like that. But something about them obviously bothered Max.
“I paid for our drinks and followed him—he’d left his hat, anyway—and though I was a block behind, I saw the couple shambling along and Max turn into an alley behind them. He looked like he was holding a pointy stick—though where he’d found that, I couldn’t imagine.” Grady laughed a little, then turned to poke at the fire. Savina was grinning, for she knew where the story was going.
“I got to the alley and found something inexplicable. I’d seen the man and the woman walk in there, and Max follow—but when I got there, the woman was gone. It was as if she’d disappeared, and it was a blind alley. There was bloody nowhe
re for her to go. Believe me, I looked. The man seemed stunned and confused, and he was bleeding from what I thought was a scratch on the neck. And there was a disgusting film of dust all over Max’s coat.”
“I suppose Max didn’t answer many questions afterward, did he?” Savina asked drily.
“Not a one. He insisted I’d had too many ales at the pub, and that the woman had slipped out of the alley and I must have missed seeing her.” Grady shook his head. “But what Max didn’t know was how familiar I was with literature. I didn’t learn to read until I was fifteen,” he added nonchalantly. “But once I did, I devoured a book a day. Quite literally. I worked in a bookshop when I first arrived in London from Dublin.” He grinned.
“And since you were familiar with literature, you’d surely read Dracula.”
“Among other stories too, like Varney the Vampire.” He sobered, turning back to the hesitant fire for a few moments, coaxing it into something more relevant.
“And so you put the pieces together.” Savina’s coffee had cooled enough by now for her to sip it, and she tasted the slug of whiskey he’d added. And some honey as well, she thought, for it was deliciously sweet. Nice touch.
“I did. He never admitted it, not really, but he didn’t really deny it either. And until he contacted me to meet him at Clancy’s Gold Coast after he arrived here in Chicago, I never did get confirmation of what I’d seen.” He was poking the fire with an iron implement. “He and I have kept in touch since London, though not as much after I moved here—even though I invited him often enough to visit. I was always curious as to whether what I’d seen was what I thought I’d seen.”
“Max is a very secretive, closed-off person,” Savina said—more to herself than to Grady. “You surely know he lost his wife to the vampires thirteen years ago. That changed him, completely and utterly. I knew him from when he was younger. He’s older than me by seven years, but we grew up in the Con—the same environment. He was always very much a rogue and a charmer, someone who bordered on arrogant with his skills and abilities—but he had a right to be arrogant and self-assured. Then after Felicia was murdered, he became a different person. He ran away. From everything. Everyone and everything. He still does.”
There was silence for a moment, filled only by the soft rustling and rolling noises as Grady stoked the blazing fire into something that could sustain itself.
“You’re not a Venator,” he said after a while of staring into the dancing flames. “But Max Denton is.”
“He is the Venator of Venators,” she told him, figuring at this point there was no reason to be reticent. Max had brought them here, he’d admitted what he did, and Grady had the right to know everything she knew. If Max didn’t like it, then he shouldn’t have abandoned her here for hours and days on end. “The Summas Gardella. The leader of the Gardella vampire hunters, descended on a direct bloodline from the first of them all.”
“Gardeleus of Rome.”
“That’s right.” Savina was mildly surprised he knew this bit of information, but Grady had proven already how resourceful and enlightened he was about many things.
“Was his wife a Venator too?”
“No. She wasn’t—female Venators are extremely rare—and truth be told, Felicia wasn’t particularly… Well, she wasn’t on the front lines, so to speak. She knew about the undead, of course, and what Max’s vocation was, and the legacy of the Gardellas, but she wasn’t part of it. Max did his best to keep those two parts of his life separate, while at the same time, protecting her as much as he could. Rather like a man going off to war, or a spy going on his missions, then returning to his normal family life.”
“He has a heavy burden.”
“The heaviest.” Savina sighed, unaccountable tears prickling her eyes. And she was adding to his burden, wasn’t she?
A man like Max—a man with brilliant, unique skills and the unwavering drive to destroy evil at any cost, who had a calling that took everything from him: physically, emotionally, mentally, spiritually—had a vocation from which he could not escape, a responsibility to the entire human race.
And loss. Oh, God, he’d suffered such loss—not only of his wife, but of his daughter and her childhood, as well as his own freedom and peace.
What right did she have to demand more from him? What right did she have to expect what he could not give? Was she being a fool? Should she not do her part to eradicate evil by being his love and support so that he could go on?
“Savina?”
She realized Grady was standing there in front of her, holding a handkerchief at her eye level. She hadn’t even realized she was crying.
“You love him.”
“Incredibly. There is—never will be—anyone else. But…” She dabbed at her eyes with the cloth, feeling like a fool.
How small were her concerns—her mere matters of the heart—when Nicholas Iscariot was in possession of Rasputin’s amulet, when he was determined to obtain the Rings of Jubai in order to gain even more power…events that would surely jeopardize hundreds if not thousands of mortals.
Grady sat on the sofa next to her. “It’s obvious to any fool the bloke loves you deeply. But surely he’s afraid of the same thing happening to you that happened to his wife.”
“Of course he is. But it’s an entirely different matter. Felicia never fully understood what that world was, what Max’s role meant. And he…he kept her insulated from it too. I am—I’ve been part of the world of the Venators since I was a child. I’ve staked vampires on my own, in fact. Well over a dozen. You don’t have to be a Venator to slay an undead.”
“And so you don’t.” He was almost smiling now; she saw the quirk of his lips.
She couldn’t hold back a grin of her own. “They don’t call me an adventure photographer for nothing.” She reached over and covered his hand, squeezing it. “Thank you so much for listening to me. If I had a brother, I’d want him to be just like you.”
At that moment, the front door opened, and in swept Max: dark, wet, and clearly in a mood.
“Well doesn’t this look cozy.” He stood there for no longer than a heartbeat, then turned and walked back out the door, which closed very abruptly behind him.
“Well, bugger that,” said Grady.
+ + +
Max was not happy when he left Woodmore at The Silver Chalice in order to go in search of his daughter—who was not, as it turned out, in her bedroom—and he was even less happy when he returned to the pub several hours later: wet, chilled, and furious beyond belief.
Damned cozy scene, he thought to himself. Fire going, sitting on the sofa together—had they actually been holding hands?
He stomped down the steps at Grady’s house, then slowed a trifle when he reached the bottom, half waiting for the door to open behind him and for Savina to come rushing after him to explain or apologize…but she didn’t.
He didn’t wait, but stalked off into the night, brushing too close to a soft arborvitae, which generously deposited all of its collected rain onto the front and side of his coat and down over his trousers. As if he weren’t already wet enough.
That’s what you get, Denton, you damned wanker. You left her, remember? Savina told you she didn’t know if she could ever trust her heart with you again.
He told his conscience to shut the bloody hell up. He didn’t have time to deal with personal matters right now—he had other personal matters to attend to. Not to mention a buggering vampire lord who was determined to control the world.
Thus, the mood he was in when he slammed open the door of The Silver Chalice was not one that invited reprimand or even comment from those inside—even when the entire damned place shook and rattled, and two glasses fell off the shelves, shattering. Damned Venator strength.
He stepped inside and whipped off his coat—he’d forgotten a hat in his rush to leave—flinging droplets of water everywhere, and hung it on a hook. It was only then that he realized three people were staring at him from their seats at the bar: Woodm
ore, an elegant Negro woman of about thirty, and Macey.
His daughter.
He faltered, but only for half a step, then continued on his way toward the group of them. This gave him the chance to actually look at her this time. To take in all the details he’d only been able to imagine over the years—for he’d refused to see photographs or read any letters about her for fear his resolve to stay away would falter.
She was slender and petite, like Felicia had been, easily a head shorter than most men. She’d reach only to Max’s chin if he ever got close enough to her for an embrace, which at this point seemed unlikely. The thought of that delicate figure taking on a vicious, powerful vampire was enough to make his heart stop.
And yet he knew she had done so.
And won.
A little stroke of pride flitted through him, followed by pain.
His daughter’s hair was the color of ripe walnut shells and curly, like his, though she had looser ringlets that were also damp from the rain. So she had been out. She had the Pesaro eyes—but of course she’d had them from birth, the large, dark, expressive ones fringed with thick lashes. Her face was chiseled and feminine, with a strong and determined chin, a wide mouth, and graceful brows.
In those moments, he recognized how beautiful, confident, and strong his daughter had come to be—and without an iota of his help. All on her own.
“Ah. The prodigal father has returned,” Macey said. “Presumably, you’re in Chicago to assist with Iscariot—or were you just passing through?”
Max ignored Woodmore’s smothered bark of laughter and slid onto the stool that gave him the best view of his daughter. His blasted knees were actually a trifle weak. He was having unusual difficulty corralling his thoughts. “Macey.”
When their eyes met, everything he’d thought he might say fled. His mouth was dry.
“Well, Max? Which is it? Passing through or here to join the club? Oh, no, wait…I know. You stopped in to put the fear of God into Al Capone, not trusting your own daughter to handle things on her own. Like she’s been doing for thirteen years.” Her brown eyes were spitting fire.
Roaring Dawn: Macey Book 3 (The Gardella Vampire Hunters 10) Page 12
