“Thank God,” murmured Temple, starting past him down the stairs on her long legs. Then she paused, looking up at the man whose features were too shadowy to see clearly. “I hope you’ve got something for me to drink down there that won’t send me to the grave.”
“Be my guest.” His mellow, silky voice was tinged with a little French. “Macey Gardella,” he said, his attention never having left her. “There is no doubting it—even if I had, now that I’ve seen you I know there’s no doubt about it. Come below, please, cherie, so we can talk. It’s not safe for you to be so visible out here. At least, not yet.”
His tone and demeanor were compelling and warm, and Macey felt a little tug deep inside her as their eyes met. She thought she saw the glint of red in his gaze, but it was brief and she was so discomfited by everything that had happened tonight she dismissed it as another fanciful moment.
“I told Temple, my name isn’t Macey Gardella.” She tore her eyes away from where they seemed to be captured by his. “There’s some mistake.”
“No,” he said, smiling broadly now, as if she’d done something unexpected and miraculous. “Oh, there is definitely no mistake. Now come below, ma cherie, for I have other things to attend to.”
Again, she felt that compelling tug deep inside her—right in the center of her chest, luring her closer, coaxing her to step down into that darkness. And again, she tore her eyes away, aware of her heart beating harder and her breathing coming faster. “No.” But she moved slowly toward the top of the stairs. He stood waiting, hand outstretched for hers.
When she got close enough, Macey took a deep breath and instead of taking his hand, she gave Mr. Vioget a great shove. Taken by surprise, he toppled backward, tumbling down into the darkness. At the same time, she turned and was running, running away, faster than she could ever remember running in her life.
Nevertheless, she heard his exclamation of irritation and surprise in her wake. It sounded as if he shouted something like “Victoria.”
~*~
Macey didn’t know where she was or how to get home, but fortune smiled upon her and presented a taxi cab that returned her to her apartment. She rented a one-room flat with kitchenette and full bath on the third floor of a large house. She’d lost her small pocketbook sometime during the night, most likely during the raid, and so she had to go inside to get money to pay the driver.
It was with great trepidation that she crept up the stairs to her flat, Temple’s warning ringing in her ears. You can’t go home. They’re probably already there, waiting for you.
Heart thudding, stomach stirring unpleasantly, she went slowly and quietly, listening and watching for she wasn’t certain whom—or what. But when she got to her door and unlocked it, holding her breath and waiting to see if some horrible fate awaited her, Macey found her efficiency apartment just as she’d left it: a lamp burning low, a few items of clothing strewn about, a cup on the counter in the kitchen area. The room was silent and empty as a tomb.
Nevertheless, she had the instinct to wait a moment, to listen and to…feel…whether she sensed anyone—or anything—present. Just like the Venators in the book, she thought with a nervous smile. If Temple and Sebastian thought she was one, she might as well act like one.
When it seemed obvious no threat awaited her, she made her way to the small box on her bureau and extricated a few bills for the cab, then rushed back down to pay the driver. Then, at nearly three o’clock in the morning, she trudged back up the steps to her living quarters and bolted the door behind her.
It took only a few moments to make certain all the windows in her one-room apartment were closed and locked. Fortunately, it was only April, and it was still cool. But even if it were the height of summer in July, she would have kept the windows shut.
Then, her thoughts in turmoil, her feet throbbing from all of the running in heels, and her pulse leaping at every sound or shadow, Macey climbed into bed.
Temple was wrong. She had a moment of wry amusement, followed by relief borne from logic. I’m perfectly safe here. There’s no one after me.
She closed her eyes, her mind whirling with memories and information from the night.
Had there really been vampires at The Gyro?
Absurd. Ridiculous.
She shook her head in irritation, and in the darkness, she willed her body to relax, her thoughts to stop spinning, and prepared to slide into repose.
But what about Flora? What if she’d been injured in the raid? Macey drew in a deep breath. There was nothing she could do now, but first thing in the morning, she’d go down and beg Mrs. Gutchinson to use her phone and call. Just to make sure Flora was all right.
Macey drew in another long, slow breath and closed her eyes.
Just then, an eerie chill brushed over her shoulders, raising the hair at the nape of her neck. Macey’s eyes popped open and her heart began pounding. Her insides churned because she was lying on her back and the window was closed. There was nowhere for a breeze to come, stirring the air.
And she’d felt that odd prickling feeling earlier tonight, at The Gyro. Just before the raid.
Like a sign of approaching evil.
Her palms grew clammy, and her throat went dry. Macey lay there, staring up into darkness, willing herself into sleep.
But her eyes were wide open, unable to blink, and she couldn’t dismiss the uncomfortable chill over the back of her neck.
Slowly she sat up, her heart pounding, her palms clammy and her insides in turmoil. Breathing shallowly, she looked around for something…for a weapon.
Why do I need a weapon?
The night was silent but for the distant city sounds, along with a cat’s yowl. Still, she couldn’t dismiss the thought that she needed a weapon. Her eyes lighted on the baseball bat she kept behind the door. Jimmy had told her it was the best thing for a young woman living alone.
The chill persisted, growing even stronger and more eerie. Silence settled heavily, expectantly, over the world. Macey’s eyes darted around the room, to the bolted window, to her door…
She leapt out of bed and dashed across the rug-covered hardwood floor, snatching up the baseball bat. Then, crouching there in the dark corner, she waited, heart pounding, listening and…waiting. Just waiting.
Nothing. She heard nothing.
Macey forced herself to breathe again, even emitting a short, derisive laugh for her nerves. Then she looked over at the window next to her bed and screamed.
There was a face there, dark, shadowy…and with burning pinkish-red eyes.
THREE
~ A Shattered Broomstick ~
For a moment, Macey was paralyzed, pinned in place by the glowing eyes of the face at the window.
Glowing red eyes.
Vampire eyes.
She shook her head violently, as if to dislodge the absurd thought, even as another part of her mind registered the baseball bat in her hands—heavy, solid…the way her bare feet staggered across the cold hardwood floor—toward the door…and the leering face at the window. With long, white fangs, fully exposed, gleaming like small ivory daggers.
The glass separating them shattered, vaulting Macey into full motion. Choking back a scream, she stumbled past the tiny kitchen table toward the door, banging into the umbrella stand on the way, then fumbling with the deadbolt she’d just slid home.
But all at once, he was there. Behind her. The chill at the back of her neck turned sharp and icy. The hairs there lifted, as if in anticipation of fangs sinking into her skin. Macey stifled another shriek as she spun, swinging the bat toward him with all her strength.
It connected with his face, smashing into his cheek with such force that his head snapped aside. He reeled back in surprise, hands flailing. Macey attacked again, this time jabbing the bat viciously toward his midsection. She caught him at the side of the torso and sent him stumbling back against the bed.
By now his eyes glowed a light ruby pink, blazing with fury, and he rolled to his feet as she staggered away.
The door. Get to the door.
Macey tripped and surged against the wall, knocking over the old broom and tipping the trashcan onto its side. Scrambling to her feet, she flung the metal can up and at him as the vampire leapt toward her. It clanged into his arm, and she barely dodged his grasping hand as she rolled away.
A stake.
The words blazed into her mind. A stake. Find a wooden stake.
He came at her again, and now she was trapped in a corner of the small kitchen area with nothing but a baseball bat. Trash littered the floor, and the broomstick rolled under her palm as Macey tried to spring to her feet.
Broomstick.
Slender. Wooden.
The thought crystallized in her mind with shocking force, shoving itself through the terror that nearly paralyzed her. As the vampire lunged toward her, she swung the bat once more, but it was in such close quarters that she had little room to put force behind it. Her weapon slammed against his shoulder, and he hardly seemed to notice it.
His fingers curled around her arm, yanking her up and off the floor. Macey’s bare feet scrabbled helplessly, brushing against his trousers and the cool tiled area.
But she had the broomstick in her hand. The old, round-tipped broom.
Not a stake. Not yet.
Her heart surged into her throat, filling it, along with a scream, as he pushed her back against the wall. One clawing hand grasped the hair at her temple while the other pressed against her chest, holding her there immobile.
She smelled heat and sweat from the creature, and the pink-red eyes burned bright and hypnotic as he bent closer to her. A little hum of pleasure came from deep in his throat. Her pulse was rampant, surging through her veins, making her head light and her body hot.
“Venator.” He smoothed one hand over her throat, holding her by a clump of hair with the other. “I have so longed for a taste of the Gardella blood.” He smiled, running a tongue over the tips of his fangs, his lips full and glistening.
Macey still clutched the broom and used every bit of strength to keep her gaze from being captured by his. Instead, she focused—not on how close he was, not on the strong, sharp fingers digging into her skull, not on the slender hand sweeping over the flesh exposed by her nightgown…but on the broomstick.
She felt around it with her foot, finding the broom’s bristly bottom, closing her eyes so she could picture it…shutting herself off from the hands, the fingers, the hot breath that spread over her sensitive skin. He yanked her head to the side, pulling it toward one shoulder so far she couldn’t hold back a moan. Her neck was exposed and she felt his hot breath on her skin. Closing her eyes, she moved one foot up along the length of the broom.
“Now,” he said, and she felt something warm and slick on her neck. Her body lurched with revulsion, and evil things began to crawl over her flesh as he used his tongue to trace the tendon on the side of her throat.
Macey squeezed her eyes shut tighter, closed her fingers on the slender wooden handle, and pictured the position of her foot. It took all her effort not to buck and twist, trying to fight him off. Instead, she battled away the sensation of her attacker’s lips, the suffocating grip on her head, her chest…and under the guise of trying to kick him, she slammed her heel down against the broomstick.
It was old. Thank God it was old. And it broke.
She had a stake.
He was forcing her tighter against the wall, pushing his body against hers, pinning her like the butterfly specimens in the museum. His fingers firm, his breathing heavy and hard, filling her ears. Her world swam. Her knees weakened. Heat licked at her neck.
Then all at once…pain.
Warmth, and pain, and…a burst of release. Something hot and ugly flowed from her, surged free, and Macey felt her lifeblood draining, drawn into the hot, slick mouth that covered her neck and pierced her flesh. It was a dark insidious pleasure that made her insides roil and her pulse trammel, and yet it was lush and dark, beckoning to her to slip back…to enjoy, to allow…
Enjoy. Relax. Submit.
The stake.
The voice was back in her head, strong, urgent, insistent. Be strong. Macey’s knees trembled and her head was swimming, but the words were clear. Urgency swarmed her and she dragged herself from the dark, deep well. She focused on the slender, jagged wood in her hand.
Help me.
Help me.
Something surged through her, some strength and energy she didn’t know she possessed, and all at once she could move. Macey raised her arm, pulling it free from behind her, and with a cry, she slammed it over and down. The point penetrated the vampire’s back with sickening ease.
He jolted into paralysis, gave a little hiss, and then all at once…he exploded.
Poofed. Into foul-smelling ash.
He was gone. Just like that.
Macey let the stake fall from a trembling hand and looked around. There was nothing. No one.
Nothing but a scattering of dust.
Her knees gave way and she sank to the floor, trembling and nauseated, gasping for air. Her nose and mouth were filled with the scent of old, moldering ash, and she felt the grit under her fingers. The rapid sound of her breathing and the slamming of her heart filled her ears, chasing away the internal roaring that had blocked all sound from the moment she saw the glowing red eyes.
Reaching for the stake, Macey closed her fingers around it and staggered to her feet. Cold, gray moonlight filtered over the room, and a gentle breeze fluttered the curtains at the broken window. In the distance, beyond the jagged cityscape, she saw the faint gray of dawn lightening the lower portion of sky.
The night was so still. So silent.
Had no one heard her struggles? Had no one heard her scream? Surely Mrs. Gutchinson, who lived below, would have been awakened by the battle. Or the Duchovny couple, who were on the same floor.
But no one had come.
She was alone.
Macey leaned against the counter. Cold settled over her: the chill of solitude, of loneliness. Pain throbbed in her neck. When she reached to touch the wound, her fingers came away glistening with blood.
Blood.
Bile surged in her belly. The creature had fed on her. Had drunk from her veins, violating her with his odd lips that were cold and warm at the same time. He attacked her with his tongue and fangs. At the memory, her vision tipped and wavered with shadow. Macey squeezed her eyes closed and breathed deeply, curling her fingers deep into her palms, still gripping the stake.
No. I survived.
Her eyes flew open, determined. She looked around her small living quarters, seeing the space with different eyes. It was no longer her cozy sanctuary, but it was still a symbol of her independence. She’d defended it. And herself.
Her gaze fell on the old book, still sitting on her nightstand. A rush of clammy heat, like fever, surprised her. The Venator. The vampire hunter. She felt lightheaded and dizzy.
Macey reached to touch the side of her neck again, feeling four small bumps beneath sticky, iron-scented blood. Still staring at the book, she tottered over to her bureau and scrabbled through the small jewelry box, feeling around for…yes. There it was.
She pulled it out—a rosary she’d been given by an old lady as she walked by Old St. Patrick’s Church just last week. She checked: yes, it had a cross on it. A big silver one, dangling from the end.
Glancing at the book as if for confirmation, Macey walked over to the shattered window, skirting the shards of glass with her bare feet. She arranged the holy object on the unfettered windowsill, ignoring the drop of blood that fell onto the white paint.
She was safe.
She curled up on the bed, wrapping her arms around her legs like a small shield, and stared into the waning darkness.
She was safe, but she’d never felt so alone.
~*~
“You didn’t get there in time? How the bloody hell could it be that you weren’t there in time?” Sebastian barely controlled himself from lungi
ng across the counter and grabbing Woodmore by the throat. His vision tinged red and he curled his fingers into the sleek mahogany bar as he forced his breathing to slow and his fangs to retract.
If something happened to Macey Gardella, everything he’d sacrificed over the last century would be for naught. Everything.
Chas Woodmore, his features obscured as always by the shadow of his low-riding fedora and the high collar of his trenchcoat, rested a gloved hand on the bar. “She’s alive and well,” he told Sebastian in a mild but unrepentant voice. “If she’d needed help, I would have interfered. But you know as well as I do a Venator must slay his—or her—first vampire unaided before being considered worthy to receive the vis bulla. I simply gave her that opportunity.”
“By allowing a Guardian vampire to get past on your watch,” Sebastian replied evenly. “Such a convenient excuse, but I suspect that only happened because you were otherwise distracted, non, mon ami?” He found and held the other man’s gaze. “Too long at the damned club, weren’t you?”
The other man’s dark eyes flashed, then turned flat and cold as he eased back. “If you want my assistance, Vioget, you’ll get it in the manner I choose. If you don’t care for my methods, then you can—”
“I see now that dawn has broken,” said a voice flavored with Creole, “all the entertainment has moved in here. And I thought The Silver Chalice closed when the sun came up.”
Sebastian glanced over at Temple as she strode across the room. Her heavy, chunky heels clunked purposefully on the wooden floor as the interior door slammed closed behind her. She’d come from one of the freight tunnels rather than street level. She met his eyes, unmistakable invitation lingering in their coffee-colored depths, and he smoothly pulled his gaze away. She was lovely. Elegant. An amazing specimen of woman.
Sebastian didn’t normally like to mix business with pleasure, but in this case, he might make an exception. And he could, without fear. Temple was lovely, but she wasn’t Giulia.
“The entertainment is long done, Temple,” Chas said sharply, pushing away from the bar with a violent gesture that revealed a flash of skin between glove and sleeve. Sebastian wasn’t surprised to see a small, crusty wound in that brief moment and he drew in a long, deep breath.
Roaring Midnight (The Gardella Vampire Chronicles | Macey #1) Page 4