Roaring Shadows: Macey Book 2 (The Gardella Vampire Hunters 8) (7 page)

When he reached the window ledge, he paused for a moment to rest, listen, and take stock. This was the most difficult part—getting through the opening in the shattered glass without cutting himself or, worse, announcing his presence by knocking shards to the ground or interior floor. He knew the warehouse wasn’t empty—during his circuit of the building, he had seen the faint glow of light deep inside.

Despite the precariousness of his position, Grady had chosen well—for as it turned out, he didn’t have to try and climb through the jagged glass hole. He reached in, found the latch, and flipped it open—all while his toes clung to the rough edge of a brick and one hand gripped the ledge.

Then, holding his breath, balancing carefully, he inched up the window sash, prepared for any squeal or creak that would give him away. It stuck a little, but was silent except for a very low, moan-like noise. When it was open far enough, Grady slipped through the opening.

He landed on a dusty, dark floor and once again paused to get his bearings. He needed to find the culprits and witness them doing their business. Once he clearly saw what was going on, then he could call in some of the detectives or at least a beat cop. If he were lucky, Linwood would be available by then.

Moving silently as a cat, he navigated through the old building, down two flights of stairs to the level where he’d seen the glow of light through a dingy window. As he drew closer, he heard the familiar rhythmic thud of a printing press, and the clatter of other mechanical tools through the walls and floor. He smiled in the darkness.
Bingo.

The lowest floor of the warehouse was open two stories high in the center, and split into sections by temporary walls. It was a vast space with a few old pallets of old crates gathering dust, a large mechanical engine, and other miscellaneous debris strewn about. The soft glow of light and the thuds of the machinery came from a far corner, obstructed by a row of bays for inventory that no longer existed. A large canvas tarpaulin gathered dust in the corner, next to a pile of splintered crates.

Then…voices. Too close for comfort.

Grady paused, slinking more deeply into the shadows as he strained to listen, edging along the wall to draw nearer to the conversation.

“…tonight. Ain’t gonna risk…”

“…all the evidence. Don’t need no fuzz sniffing…”

“…never put a finger on us.” A laugh, then more… “Get the stuff out… Burn the place down.”

“Right, boss.”

Heart thudding with excitement and determination, Grady followed the conversation of the two men. Definitely the right call to come here tonight; from the sounds of it, the gang was moving on to who knew where.

That meant Grady had to get the cops here immediately, before the thugs set fire to the place. That alone was a terrifying thought: this old warehouse, though brick inside and steel-beamed in framework, was wood everywhere else. Dry and dusty, the interior of the place and its clutter of contents would go up in smoke in a heartbeat.

Yet he hadn’t seen anyone to identify them or even what they were actually doing. He had time…the machine was still running. Obviously they weren’t planning to move the equipment out before that print run was finished. Then they’d have to pack things up…

He needed to see more. At least then he could act as a witness
and
get the story for the paper. He wished he could take a photograph, but that would illuminate his presence as well as that of the perpetrators.

Soundless, he crept around a stack of crates, quickly and deftly making his way toward the corner of the room where the counterfeiters gathered. He heard them talking and joshing, and the definite noises of paper crinkling and heavy items being moved or stacked.

Grady was close enough to be able to see now, and he peered around the corner of one of the flimsy temporary walls. His pulse leapt.
Yes.
Exactly what he had expected: a small press spitting out one bill at a time, then the bill was fed back into a different press for the other side to be printed. There were two presses going on, and two men at each press taking the bills and swapping them for the other side to be printed.

A fifth man—the one Grady knew and believed was the ringleader—was helping a sixth member hang the bills on clotheslines to dry.

He was just about to ease back and make his escape when he felt something behind him.

He turned just in time to see a man, arm raised…then something struck the side of his head.

Pain exploded and everything went dark.

FIVE

~ Wherein Chas is Greatly Amused ~

“That wasn’t the best place
for a lover’s spat, was it, Macey darling?”

She didn’t turn from where she pretended to contemplate a painted mural of jazz musician silhouettes, though the hair prickled gently—yet didn’t feel chilly—at the back of her bare neck. “Not here, Chas. Meet me at the coatroom in five minutes.”

She continued on her way to the ladies’ lounge, aware of the number of Capone’s men who stood watchful in the lobby and along each of the entrances to the club. After attending to the sagging cerulean flower behind her ear and dabbing on a little more lip color, she pinched her cheeks and left the lounge.

Because of the balmy April weather, and the fact that people preferred to keep their furs in their own proximity, the coatroom was deserted.

Macey glanced around to make certain none of Capone’s men were watching her. Then, with a neat one-handed movement, she vaulted herself over the half-wall where the attendants normally collected and returned coats. She landed solidly on the ground, and just as she adjusted her errant hair-flower again, she saw a shadow move in the back of the rows of empty coat racks.

“So what brings you to The Music Castle?” she asked Chas as she edged toward one of the inner walls, out of sight of the coatroom window.

“I heard Louis Armstrong was going to be here tonight. Thought I’d come and listen to some good jazz music.” Sarcasm rolled off his very posture.

Though the only light was that which came from the lobby outside, she could still see Chas’s features and expression relatively well. He looked the same as always: hard, closed-off, dark and swarthy from his Gypsy heritage, and unhappy to be there. He wore a suit and coat, like most of the men present, his of charcoal gray, with an unfashionable dark shirt—likely to allow him to meld into the shadows without the white beacon of a cotton button-down to give him away. His hair—thick, wavy, and too long—was completely out of date. He looked as if he belonged to an utterly different era. He sometimes spoke that way too.

“I’m promised it’ll be a good show,” she replied. Then, dropping all pretense, Macey continued, “How is Sebastian?”

“Sebastian? Ah, then you
do
care—at least about
his
welfare. He’s slick and sly and impatient as ever, lulu. Oh, and he can’t go about in the sunlight, you know. Poor fop.”

“Now, Chas,” she said, her voice dropping a little. “Jealousy doesn’t become you. Of course I care about your welfare as well as Sebastian’s, and Temple’s too, of course—but the last time I saw him he barely escaped poofing in the sun.”

“And that was, what…five months ago? Last fall, was it? Apparently your concern didn’t extend to proactive communication—now that you’re Big Al’s sidepiece,” Chas replied coolly. “What’s it like, living in the lap of luxury, on the dime of the most evil man in Chicago—that is, besides Nicholas Iscariot—while the undead roam like feral rats in the underground and the rest of us try to keep them at bay?”

She caught herself just in time; her hand had jerked, ready to fly up and connect with his sharp-boned cheek, and she only barely kept it at her side. Chas met her eyes, challenge and knowledge in his gaze. “Good decision, Macey. Save your tantrums for Snorky. You were having a ripe one, too, from the looks of your little display in the lobby back there.”

She drew in a deep breath, and with effort forced the fury to ebb from her body. Chas had a right to be angry, to question her. He didn’t have to be such an ass about it, but she couldn’t deny he had cause. And just because she was feeling a little thin-skinned tonight…

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Sorry for precisely what?”

She pursed her lips. “All right. I deserve that, I suppose, to some extent—”

“You sure as the devil do deserve that—and more. Look, Macey, the last time I saw you, we’d just battled our way out of a den of vampires and you got forced into a long black car—and I was detained from joining you. I hear from Sebastian that he nearly died and lost the Rings of Jubai to Al Capone…and then he tells me you’re
staying
with him? With that bastard? What in the hell is going on—”

“Keep your voice down. He’s got people everywhere—which is
why
I haven’t been able to be in contact with you or Sebastian or anyone. Capone’s kept me under house arrest for months now, and in case you couldn’t tell, I was damned happy to see you here.”

At last Chas relaxed a little. “As a matter of fact, I could. I could’ve sworn you looked like you were going to faint with relief when you looked over and noticed me.”

She breathed a little sigh of relief. That was Chas. Furious and black-hearted one minute, ready to crack a wry joke the next. “Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t need to be saved. But I do need to talk to you—”

“So talk. Let’s get down to business. What are you doing for Capone, lulu?”

“He wants me to be his bodyguard, his—well, his personal Venator. Mainly, he wants me around. Because he believes one of Rosamunde Gardella’s prophecies refers to me…and him.”

Chas’s eyes narrowed. “One of Rosamunde’s prophecies…about you and
him
? Why the bloody hell would he think that? And how would he even
know
about the prophecies?”

Macey stilled. “I guess you don’t know. He’s a Venator.”

Her companion froze then his eyes widened and he began to laugh. Loudly, derisively, uproariously. His body shook and he leaned his shoulder against the wall as if needing to be held upright.

Good grief. When the dark pain and anguish that always lingered in his countenance evaporated and turned into reckless humor instead, Chas became unbelievably handsome. Impossibly good-looking—so much so that Macey’s knees felt a little weak with the rest of her being in close quarters with such a gorgeous specimen of manhood.

A powerful, mysterious, gorgeous specimen of manhood.

“Keep it down,” she said again, putting a little space between herself and this suddenly godlike being. He was being an ass again—which helped.

Why would a man who looked like Chas Woodmore be so lonely? So empty? Surely it wouldn’t be difficult for him to find companionship, and perhaps even love. Of course, there was that underlying derision and anger he always seemed to possess.

Chas brought himself under control, but the hard light of humor still glinted in his eyes. “So Al Capone told you he’s a Venator, and you believed him?” He started chuckling again, derision lighting his expression. “What a fool—”

That did it. This time, she didn’t hold back. It wasn’t her hand that came up to slap him in the face, it was her elbow and forearm that swung up and around sharply, catching him in the diaphragm hard enough to cut off his air—and to fully get the bastard’s attention.

He grunted and jolted backward, his hand going to his bent torso as he tried to catch his breath.

“I saw his
vis bulla
,” she snapped.

“I’ll…bet…you…did,” he wheezed. This earned him another blow, but Chas managed to catch her fist with his open palm. His fingers curled around hers and tightened in warning as he straightened. “I’m happy to scrap with you, Macey darling, but we might do a little too much damage in this small space. Then how would we explain it to your new boss?” His voice quivered with humor, then steadied. “Besides that—it’s the undead we need to be showing our strength to.”

She yanked her hand away. “His name is in the Gardella Bible. Go look it up. Alphonsus.”

“Fuck.” Chas stepped back, shock and disbelief replacing levity in his expression. “Is it true?”

“Unfortunately, I have no reason not to believe him—except for the fact that he’s a greedy, brutal bastard who is using his abilities for the wrong reasons. In other words, I wish I
could
disbelieve him.”

“Fuck,” he said again. Then his lips twisted, turning them from sensual to flat and ugly. “Vioget must know. The
bastard
,” he muttered. “I knew he was keeping something from me. Hell, that’s probably not the only damn thing.” His gaze flashed, and Macey realized if Sebastian was there, she would be treated to one hell of a brawl—destruction of the coatroom notwithstanding.

“You can fantasize about stabbing him with a stake later, Chas. We need to figure out a way to communicate once I leave here. I’m not certain how much freedom I’m going to have, and I…”

She stilled, and both of them turned at the same time. An ugly, insidious, eerie chill settled over the back of her neck—the prickling that announced the presence of the undead.

“Time to get to work.” Chas shifted and a stake slipped into his hand from up a sleeve.

“Capone will feel it too. I’d better get back to him first.”

“You do what you have to do,” he said, much too politely. “By all means. Take care of your boss. I’m going to dust some undead before they do any damage of their own.”

“If I don’t see you again tonight—”

But he was already gone before she could tell him where and how to communicate with her in the future.
Jerk
. Macey shook her head and hurried out of the coatroom.

Though she and Chas were both aware of the mortal danger the presence of vampires portended, the other attendees at The Music Castle had no idea their lives were in jeopardy. When Macey came out of the coatroom and returned to the lobby, everything was as it had been before: gangsters standing about watching for trouble they had no concept how to combat and probably wouldn’t recognize anyway, a few knots of people chatting. As if to punctuate the easy mood, beyond the two sets of double doors that led to the club itself crooned the jumpy, happy beat of a jazzy clarinet.