Roaring Shadows: Macey Book 2 (The Gardella Vampire Hunters 8) (15 page)

She took a step. Then another.

Then another.

His cold, powerful presence wrapped around her, and still she went to him.

TWELVE

~ A Dark Battle ~

“Now, Macey,” Iscariot coaxed.
“Come to me. I can smell you, and now I will taste you once more.”

Macey’s fingers curled around the neckline of her dress, tangling in the heavy chain beneath it. She felt the unyielding edge of the empty metal table as she made her way along its length toward him…step by step.

Father. My father is alive.

The words burned in her mind.
Our legacy.

Her hand gripped the edge of the table as she came to the end. She was almost to Iscariot, close enough she could feel his heartbeat more strongly…she could see a small mole on his face, see the way his nostrils flared as he scented her… His eyes were narrowed with anticipation, and his tongue slipped out to moisten those skinny lips, running over the tips of his fangs.

And then she
moved
: yanked the chain from beneath her frock and simultaneously rammed the table toward him with every bit of strength she owned.

The metal corner caught him in the abdomen just as her large silver cross came into view, tumbling forth to dangle between her breasts. Iscariot’s shocked cry was cut off as the heavy table knocked the breath out of his lungs. He slammed into the wall behind him, doubled over, and shoved the table back.

Macey whirled away, swiping her stake from the floor in a smooth move as her cross bounced and swung as if it yearned to lunge for him itself. By the time she swooped upright, Iscariot had recovered. His eyes were furious: red and blue. His lips were peeled back, revealing long, terrifying fangs. The sight of the cross had paralyzed him, but not for long.

He lunged toward her, and Macey somersaulted over one of the bodies, dislodging it as she landed on the other side of its slab. The corpse tumbled to the ground in a morbid show of stiff limbs, and she barely missed her feet tangling in its sheet.

Iscariot hissed and swiped his long-nailed fingers at her, catching her bare arm across the slab and leaving three long streaks.

Macey gasped at the sudden streak of pain even as she grabbed his arm on the downswing, yanking him toward her. He didn’t expect this, and lost his balance for a moment—but that was all she needed. Macey yanked the cross from her neck and slammed it against his cheek. He screamed, and his flesh sizzled as he twisted away, sending her spinning into the wall. She crashed into the cement block and whirled just in time to see Iscariot leap into the air.

Macey froze as he seemed to hover near the ceiling for an interminable length of time, then suddenly…he was gone. The only thing left was an ugly swirl of black smoke.

She spun wildly, looking in all corners of the room, stake in a death grip, cross in hand, eyes wide. Nothing.

Everything was still but for her panting breaths and the sounds of her feet scuffing the floor.

Silence. Nothing.

She held her breath, listening to her body: the sensation at the back of her neck, the prickle of hair along her arms, the putrid scent of burned vampire flesh and embalming fluid…and there was nothing.

He was gone. Could he really be gone?

Her fingers shook and her knees trembled and she waited…and waited.

Iscariot had gone.

All that remained was the eerie chill of an average undead—Danny Fanalucci.

Macey wasted no more time. She turned to the vampire and plunged her stake into his heart, shoving it through tissue and breastbone until she felt the little
pop
that told her she’d hit her mark.

Fanalucci seemed to shudder, and his eyelids fluttered—and then, just as she withdrew her stake, he exploded in a cloud of foul-smelling dust. Something metallic clinked onto the floor.

Coughing, panting, her knees still terribly weak, Macey brushed the ash from her dress and shoulders. She considered—briefly—sweeping it up, but there wasn’t all that much of it, and vampire dust would disintegrate for the most part anyway. Besides, she wanted to get
away
from here.

She shoved the now-empty drawer back into place with a dull metal clang and looked around the room one more time.

Empty. Silent.

And yet the essence of malevolence and dark power remained.

Anger and residual terror fueled Macey as she left the morgue and stalked along the dark, deserted streets. Her knees still shook and she felt vaguely nauseated—and more than a little stunned that she was still alive, all things considered. But more than that, she was blind with fury.

She could have hailed a taxi, but part of her almost
wished
she’d encounter someone who meant her—a female alone—harm. She had a lot of pent-up energy ready to explode. Nevertheless, she made it to the wrought iron railing topped by an ornamental goblet with no incident.

She clomped down the stairs with unsteady knees and had her fingers on the door to The Silver Chalice before she realized what she was doing.

“Damn.” She snatched her hand away and looked down at herself: disheveled and streaked with blood. Her own blood this time. She was still rattled from the encounter with Iscariot, still disbelieving he’d actually left—disappeared in that curl of smoke.

She couldn’t go into the pub looking and smelling like this. But by God, she was going to speak to Sebastian—or Chas.

The door opened, narrowly missing slamming into her at the base of the small, subterranean stairwell. A man staggered out and she grabbed him by the scruff of the shirt.

“Go back in there and fetch Chas Woodmore.”

The man blinked, and tried valiantly to focus on her. “Chats
who
? You need more wood?” His eyes fell to her neck and then her bloodstained dress. “What in hell happened to—”

“Chas. Wood. More. Fetch him now.” She spun him back toward the door and shoved him back through, hoping Chas was, in fact, inside.

But it wasn’t yet near dawn, and surely he was out hunting vampires, saving innocent mortals from their rapacious fangs.

Which was what Macey was supposed to be doing instead of kissing Al Capone’s ass.

That was her legacy. The one she shared with her
father
… Was it possible he was still alive?

But instead of doing her duty—ridding the world of as many vampires as possible—she was fumbling around at the whim and will of a brutal gangster…and losing her cool when confronted by a powerful undead.

She couldn’t deny she wanted to be sick at the thought of Iscariot’s hands on her…his fangs, driving deeply into her throat and drawing her lifeblood out in long, whistling drags. Her insides were like a mass of writhing snakes, and cold terror still lingered like an icy finger tracing her spine.

But she’d
burned
the creature. She’d
burned
him.

“Macey?” Suddenly Chas was there—clearly surprised, but not displeased, to see her. “It
is
you.”

She gathered her thoughts and looked up at him as the man whom she’d sent to collect Chas brushed by in a cloud of drunkenness to make his way up the steps. “Why didn’t you tell me my father is alive?”

Chas frowned. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“My father.
Is he alive?
”

“Hell no, as far as I know, he isn’t. What makes you think otherwise?”

A wave of emotion shuttled through her. Something between relief and anger and what doctors called “shock.” Chas, at least, hadn’t been lying to her.

Either that, or he was a hell of an actor.

“You look like you’ve just come from doing your job,” he added. “It’s about time you told Al Capone to fu—”

“I was at the morgue. Iscariot was there. He…” Her voice wavered, but damned if she was going to let herself show any more weakness than she already had tonight. “He told me my father is still alive.”

Chas’s eyes narrowed as a range of emotions rushed across his face. “You escaped from Iscariot? Don’t tell me you killed him—Christ, did you?” His eyes widened.

Macey shook her head. “We fought, and then he just…disappeared. In a puff of black smoke.” She kept her voice steady with effort. “After I smashed this in his face.” She produced the cross.

The door opened before Chase could reply. Noise and the sour stench of stale beer poured from the pub as three patrons angled their way none too gently through the bottom of the narrow passage.

“We better get out of here before Vioget gets a whiff of you,” Chas said. “You can tell me everything.”

“No,” she replied. “And since I can’t go in there now, you’d best find out from Sebastian whether he knows.”

She’d barely put a foot on the lower step when Chas took her arm. “Where the hell are you going?” When Macey turned, he must have read the answer in her face, for his own expression darkened. “Back to Capone?”

She shook free of his grip and stared him back down. “We all have our faults and weaknesses, don’t we, Chas? I’ll be in contact as soon as I can.”

Without another glance, she clomped up the steps. Yet, though she could leave behind her fellow vampire hunter, as well as the man she thought of as her mentor, Macey knew she was neglecting even more than that.

She was abandoning her family legacy.

THIRTEEN

~ A Coming to Terms ~

Macey hadn’t made it to the
end of the block when she felt him behind her.

She spun just as Chas lunged. “You’re not going back there.” His grip was painfully tight around her arm as he put fingers to his mouth and gave a sharp whistle.

“Let me go.” She gave a rough jerk to pull free, but he was strong and very determined…and maybe she didn’t really have the desire to fight that hard.

At least, that was what she told herself as he muscled her toward the black car that rolled up silently. She made another token protest, which Chas ignored as he unceremoniously bundled her into the backseat.

“Who the hell do you think you are? Al Capone?” she muttered as he shoved her legs out of the way and climbed in after her.

“Bite your bloody tongue,” he said, then spoke to the driver, whom Macey recognized with a start as a regular at The Silver Chalice. “My house.”

“Since when do you have your own private automobile?” she said, hoisting herself upright onto the seat next to him. The vehicle was not a luxurious stretch like Capone’s, so there was only the one bench seat in the back.

“Not mine. Vioget’s. A recent acquisition—after his unexpected ride in Capone’s limousine. But he lets me use it as necessary.” Chas settled into the corner. “I’m sure he’d approve of this trip.”

He slung his arm over the back of the seat, and when one finger brushed against her shoulder, he didn’t seem to notice. Nor did he move it. He did, however, seem to be noticing everything else. Macey watched silently as his eyes tracked from the windows on each side of the auto, then out the windshield, then back again. He was on guard for Capone’s goons.

And perhaps for Iscariot.

Macey couldn’t control a little shudder, and she reached automatically for her cross. The one that surely had saved her life. She still felt a twinge pulsing from the scar Iscariot had raised down along her torso.

“Cold?”

“No.”

“You can relax now, you know.” He gave her a little poke at the back of the shoulder.

Five months ago, Macey probably would have argued with him. She might have retorted she didn’t need anyone to protect her or take care of her, and she didn’t need to relax.

But she’d changed.

Chas felt the tension ooze from Macey’s body as she finally let go of everything and slumped further into the corner. Her fingers uncurled and her eyes drifted closed. He set his teeth grimly and continued to watch the shadows and streets, to read the back of his neck and listen to his instincts…watching and waiting for danger in both mortal and immortal form.

So Max Denton was still alive…if Iscariot could be believed. He wondered what the hell Denton was thinking, abandoning and ignoring his daughter for more than a decade.

Sometimes life is too painful to remain part of it, isn’t it, Chas?

Wayren’s words to him—oh, more than a century ago, after everything had happened with Narcise—suddenly rang in his mind.

Well, he couldn’t argue with that. He was fortunate Wayren had given him an out, a detour…an escape. He wondered what Max Denton’s escape would be. A dark, violent, solitary life…then death?

Well, hell. Just like the one Chas was living.

The car eased to a halt in front of St. Anselm’s Church. The cross atop its squat spire made a nice shadow in the middle of the street, and, occasionally, that shadow fell across the window of Chas’s upper-floor apartment in the building next door. A nice little deterrent for the undead.

Chas slipped Ned a few bills as well as a message for Vioget. Of course, Sebastian paid the man a salary, but Chas saw the value in having his own relationship with the driver. At the sound of Ned’s murmured thanks, Macey blinked and shook her head as if to clear away the cobwebs, but Chas didn’t risk the delay of waiting for her to haul herself to her feet. Instead, he tugged her out of the backseat and ushered her through the hidden doorway that led to his place.

It wasn’t until he got her inside his small apartment and turned on the lights that he saw the blood. It wasn’t as if there was that much of it…it was just
where
it was. In a long, neat line down the front of her dress, bisecting her torso. And there was a rusty ring around one breast.

“Christ,” he said to cover his shock, “this is getting to be a damned habit of yours, arriving at my place looking half dead.”

She looked up at him from under a tangle of dark curls, her eyes gleaming with something almost unholy. Her fingers trembled a little as they gripped the back of the sofa, but her voice was strong. “Let’s be honest, Chas. I’m here because you want me here—not because I need to be here, or because I need you.”

“Is that so?” He pulled out the glass Mason jar labeled “vinegar” from under the tiny sink in his kitchenette and unscrewed the top. The whiskey—good stuff, but not as good as what Vioget served—sloshed into two fairly clean glasses as silence reigned. “Drink up.” He shoved one toward her.