“I thought you had a job interview tonight,” Macey said weakly. Temple had walked over to her bureau and picked up the broken broomstick handle. Then her attention wandered to the torn picture of Macey’s mother on her wedding day. “What about if I come over after we go to the milliner’s shop—unless you want to go with us?”
“No. I’ll just go home. You can come over to the boardinghouse when you’re done.” Flora gave her one last look, then flounced out the door.
No sooner had it closed behind her than Macey turned to Temple. “I suppose Sebastian sent you.”
“You suppose correctly. I hope you’ve made the right decision.”
“The right decision for whom?” She glared at Temple, then at the world in general.
She’d had more visitors in the last twenty-four hours than she’d had since moving into this flat, and more upheaval in her life since she finally arrived in Skittlesville.
“I’m talking about the right decision for mankind, sister.”
“For mankind? Don’t you think that sounds a little…dramatic?”
Temple shook her head, arms still crossed over her slender middle. “From what I hear, even Victoria Gardella wasn’t as stubborn and narrow-sighted as you. When you’re one of the Chosen few called—and given the skills—to fight to eradicate a demonic evil, your decision does, indeed, affect mankind. Now, are you coming with me or not?”
And then…you hunt vampires.
Macey looked at the broken broomstick, the Venators book, the rosary…the chair where Grady had sat guard all night. And then at the mutilated photo of her mother on her wedding day.
She nodded. “I’m coming.”
And then she promptly felt sick to her stomach.
EIGHT
~ Of Trying and Thinking and Doing ~
“And so you are ready to take on the vis bulla,” said Sebastian in his velvety voice. He smiled at her, his amber eyes warm and intimate.
Macey found it difficult to swallow. She was both nervous and a little intimidated by him—this unaccountably handsome man who looked like a golden angel.
A golden angel with an air of deviltry.
“I will try…” she began, but the words stuck in her throat.
“Try? One cannot try to be a Venator.”
Macey spun at the sound of the condemning voice. Chas walked through the door, dark and slick and gloomy. He was dripping wet, for it had begun to pour rain just as Macey and Temple arrived at The Silver Chalice.
“If you are called as a born Venator, you must either give your life for the legacy, or you deny your Calling. If you do, your mind is erased of all knowledge. You live in ignorant oblivion.”
Macey stared at Chas. “You said that before…but do you mean that literally?”
“Of course. I told you yesterday.”
She turned to Sebastian, whose sensual, angelic appearance had turned black and furious. Chas sauntered past the table that had been set up in the center of the room and took a seat in a plump brown armchair, heedless of his soaked clothing. He crossed his legs and gave Sebastian an amiable smile.
“It is true?” she said to Sebastian, knowing this was her last chance to change her mind.
“It is.” The words sounded as if they were wrung from his throat.
Silence hung, taut, in the room for a moment. Macey tried to steady her breathing, grab hold of her thoughts. Temple had taken her through Cookie’s Smart Millinery and down into a hidden cellar, which led to a tunnel connected to Sebastian’s quarters. Once she delivered Macey, Temple had taken herself off somewhere, leaving Macey with Sebastian—and now Chas.
She looked around, taking a moment to examine the space as a way to clear her mind. This was a chamber she’d not seen on her previous visit to the Chalice. Attached to Sebastian’s private quarters, the rectangular area was more of a library or office than a living room.
There were two doors at opposite ends of the room—one through which they’d entered, passing through the parlor in which she’d originally met Sebastian. Filled bookshelves lined one wall. Two armchairs—where Chas currently left small puddles on the rug—were arranged in front of a desk, sporting stacks of books and papers, a lamp, and writing implements. A glass-doored cabinet on the shortest, far wall held a variety of curious objects—odd statues, unusual jewelry including a tarnished metal cuff. Even a large, shiny black splinter made of some material she couldn’t identify. The items looked like artifacts, as if they belonged in a museum. A large book that appeared to be a Bible sat on a shelf in the center of the cabinet. Arranged on a bookstand, the tome was open to a page Macey would swear had been hand-lettered by a twelfth-century monk.
Her fingers itched to examine the book, and she could hardly keep her eyes away. She didn’t work at a library for nothing.
The tension in the room was still high, and Macey hadn’t formulated her response when the far door opened. Immediately, a sense of peace filled the place, as if a glass wall had shattered and allowed air to flow freely.
A woman glided through the door and Macey stared. She’d never seen anyone dressed like her: in a simple, undyed floor-length gown that reminded her of illustration plates of Lady Guinevere, with wrist-length sleeves that had cuffs long enough to drag on the ground. Her waist was cinched with a simple chain belt—silver—and her pale moonbeam hair reached well below the links. Two sets of three narrow braids at her temples were gathered back from her face and plaited together to hang down the back of her hip-length, loose hair. Despite her medieval garb, the woman carried a modern leather satchel.
She smiled at the three of them, and Macey felt another wave of unexpected warmth and comfort settle over her. She looked at Sebastian, who wore what could only be described as an expression of chagrin—as if he’d been caught with a hand in the candy jar. Chas stilled and seemed to sink deeper into the embrace of his armchair.
Neither of them spoke, and the woman turned calm gray-blue eyes toward her. Macey considered, but couldn’t decide how old she thought the new arrival was. Certainly older than she, but not old at all. It was as if she were ageless.
The woman inclined her head. “Macey Denton. You are very nearly the image of your great-great-grandmother.”
“But with her great-great-grandfather’s eyes.” Sebastian spoke at last, his voice low. Then he addressed the newcomer. “And what a sight for sore eyes you are, madame. I’ve been wondering when—or if—you might…er…grace us with your presence ever again.” He gave a short, tight laugh.
She turned a bemused smile on him, and Macey watched in fascination as Sebastian’s show of irritation eased. Once again she thought he resembled a shamefaced little boy, caught doing something wrong by someone he adored and yet feared. And Chas looked as if he wished to be anywhere but here, yet was afraid to get up and leave.
Macey, intrigued but not intimidated, spoke to her. “You seem to know me—and you’re the only person so far to call me by my real name. But who are you?”
“I’m Wayren, of course.” Her bemused smile widened as she glanced at Sebastian and Chas. “I’m not certain whether I should be pleased or offended neither of these two fine gentlemen have spoken to you of me.”
“Since you haven’t made an appearance in over a decade, I wasn’t expecting to have to introduce you to Macey anyway,” Sebastian said. “Aside from the fact that no mere words can do you justice, of course. Even I dared not attempt it.” He gave her a genuine smile, clearly more at ease now. In fact, Macey thought she detected a definite sense of relief.
“It was time to return,” Wayren said simply, then looked at Macey. Her gaze, though mild and warm, seemed to penetrate deep. “Your given name is certainly Denton, but more importantly, your legacy is Gardella. Have you made your decision?”
“I…think so.”
“First it’s try, and now it’s think? For God’s sake, there can be no hesitation for a Venator. You either take up the stake, wed it, and live with it, or you exist in ignorance!”
To Macey’s surprise, Chas’s outburst elicited nothing but a glance from Wayren. Not even a lifted brow for punctuation. She returned her attention to Macey. “Perhaps I should send them away so the two of us can speak without interruption.”
At that, Macey smiled. “That’s the most sense anyone’s made since Temple dragged me out of The Gyro and tried to force me down the stairs to meet Sebastian.”
“Indeed. I can imagine how that must have gone.” Wayren laughed lightly and charming little crinkles appeared at the corners of her eyes, which had turned to a clear cerulean blue.
“I pushed him down the stairs.”
“Of course you did.”
She must have seen Macey’s eyes flicker toward the ancient book in the cabinet, for the next thing she knew, Wayren was going over to it and then opening the doors. “This is the Gardella family Bible. The oldest pages have been in the family since the mystic Rosamunde recorded her prophecies in them at Lock Rose Abbey in the twelfth century.”
Macey couldn’t keep from reaching toward the aged, aged pages, then snatched back her hand before she touched them. She looked up at Wayren, who nodded permission. “The book belongs to you, Macey Gardella. If you choose to accept the call. Your name will be added on the frontispiece below that of your father’s, where are listed all of the Gardella Venators who have descended in the direct line from—”
“Gardeleus,” Macey whispered, remembering the story in The Venators. “The first Venator—a gladiator in first-century Rome.”
Wayren nodded. “He was called on a quest to protect mankind and rid the earth of the immortal half-demon creatures descended from the betrayer Judas Iscariot. Those beings were given their immortality—and an unquenchable need for blood—by the fallen angel Lucifer.” She turned to the back of the book, showing Macey the writing there. “See you here…the list of all the other Venators from far-flung branches of the family, or otherwise brought into the fold: Max, Sebastian, Michalas, Brim…and the list goes on to the present day. Martinus. David. Ranetti. Alphonsus. And Chas Woodmore.”
When Macey touched the Bible at last, a shock of awareness, of vibrating, sizzling energy shuttled through her. Yes.
The word reverberated through her…not so much in her head or ringing in her ears, but within her. Yes.
Then she remembered the voice in the church: You can.
She looked up at Wayren, who was watching her with steady eyes. Macey was hardly aware Sebastian and Chas were still present; all of her attention was on the book and the serene blond woman next to her. She looked down at the aged tome once more. Something swelled in her, warm and full and peaceful. Certainty. Serenity.
“Yes. I’ll do it.”
At her words, it was as if the room itself gave a great sigh of relief.
Or perhaps it was something inside Macey, that part which had been waiting for the chance to blossom and grow into what had long ago been planted.
“Very well then,” Wayren said, her gaze still calm and warm. “Sebastian, do you have the vis bulla?”
He handed the blond woman an ornate glass bottle, hardly larger than his thumb. Its cork was fixed in place by a melted seal that glinted, as if the wax had been mixed with silvery dust. The small bottle was filled with clear liquid and inside was a delicate silver cross suspended from a hoop that wouldn’t even fit over the tip of her small finger.
Macey’s heart thumped harder as Sebastian broke the seal. She noticed for the first time he was missing half of the pinkie finger on his left hand, the hand on which he wore the red-stoned signet ring. But she was distracted from wondering how and when the accident occurred when he opened the bottle. As he poured the contents into his cupped palm, there was a small puff, followed by a bit of steam.
Sebastian glanced at her, the wince easing from his expression. “One of the many hazards of my condition.”
He could easily have avoided touching the holy water, as well as the vis bulla. Macey didn’t know whether he meant to show off for her—or Wayren, perhaps—or whether he had other reasons for exposing himself to the pain. It occurred to her then, also, that if he was a Venator, he too must wear a vis bulla. Did it cause him constant pain as well? The holy silver amulet against his undead flesh?
Sebastian handed the tiny cross to Wayren, who turned to Macey. “Steeped in holy water from beneath the Vatican from a font in the private quarters of the Venators—a place known as the Consilium—the vis is forged of silver. Every undead is repelled by this pure metal because it represents the thirty silver coins for which Judas sold Jesus. The amulet must be worn pierced through the skin in order to give the full benefit of its power. Only one who has been called to the Gardella Legacy, and who has also slain a vampire on his or her own, may wear and feel the effects of the holy amulet.”
“But…” Macey frowned and looked at Chas, remembering the offer to show her his vis bulla. “I thought you weren’t Called.”
“I’m a special case. In more than one way.” His tone was slightly less caustic than usual, due, she suspected, to the presence of the mysterious Wayren. “Perhaps someday I’ll tell you how I came to be here, in the twentieth century, when I was originally from a much different time.”
Wayren continued. “Chas is correct—there is that rare exception. If a mortal who is not born to the Gardella Legacy so chooses, he or she may attempt what is called a Trial. If he or she succeeds—and there have been many who tried and only six in all the centuries who have succeeded—then he or she is given a vis bulla.”
“With all the same powers of a born Venator?”
“Indeed. There is no difference except the new Venator has actually sought the chance to become a chosen vampire hunter instead of being called to it. And he has accomplished a task that could only be completed with the help of divine intervention.”
Macey hesitated. But she had to ask. “What about my father?”
“Max Denton was a born Venator and an incredible warrior. He and his father before him.” Wayren gestured to the table in the center of the room. “Now, if you are ready, Macey Denton, I shall arm you with the vis bulla.”
Her palms suddenly sprang damp, but Macey climbed onto the table, sitting on the edge with her legs dangling off. “Where do you put it?” She reached for her earlobe, where many women wore pierced earrings.
“You may wear it wherever you wish, but most Venators choose to have it pierced through the upper lip of the navel. In that way, not only is it out of sight and protected from any undead who might use it to identify you, or worse, disarm you by tearing it away, but it is also very near the center of your body. Its power can more easily flow through every limb and elsewhere.”
“Yes. I agree. That would be the best.” Then, realizing what she’d just agreed to, Macey swallowed. Not only would it be uncomfortable, she would also have to bare her midriff in front of Chas and Sebastian. Her cheeks grew hot and, without meaning to, she looked at Sebastian. He caught her doing so, and, his lips twitching into a devilish smile, he held her eyes for a beat too long. His gaze turned dark and warm, like rich golden velvet. He didn’t even need the flare of his glowing thrall to capture her.
Macey tore her eyes away, her insides fluttering with winged creatures, heat rushing through her body as she imagined his elegant fingers sliding over her bared flesh.
“If you will recline.” Wayren’s direction was mild, but Macey dared not look at the imposing woman for fear she’d seen the interplay with Sebastian.
Instead, she hoisted her legs onto the table and lay flat on her back, taking care not to expose any more of her thighs than necessary. Fortunately, she’d worn a skirt and blouse today rather than a dress, so it was simple business to work the top free from the waistband into which it was tucked.
The air was cool on the uncovered skin of her belly, contrasting with the warmth of self-consciousness flooding her face and throat and Wayren’s easy touch on her abdomen. The blond woman paused to retrieve a pair of spectacles wit
h square lenses from her satchel and she put them on as Macey tried to relax.
She drew in a deep breath, arms flat at her sides. Her attention fell on Chas, who stood next to Sebastian on one side of the table. He wore an inscrutable expression, something between pain and hope. His hands were curled into tight fists, hanging at his sides. Was he remembering when he received his vis bulla? That thought had her wondering where he wore it, and the image of a bare torso rose in her mind.
Would you like to see my vis bulla, Macey?
She swallowed and then gasped at the sudden, sharp pain at her belly. But Wayren’s movements were smooth and quick, and moments later, Macey felt the slight, cool weight of the tiny cross settling into the hollow of her navel.
At the same time, a sizzle of energy and light flooded her. She felt it. She truly felt it.
Before she could do it herself, strong hands helped her upright—it was Chas—and she nodded her thanks to him.
“It’s done,” he said simply, then stepped away. His hand settled on his own midriff.
Sebastian was looking at her too, his golden brown eyes soft and warm. “Thank you.”
“Welcome.” Wayren handed Macey the empty bottle, its cork stopper back in place. “You may keep this if you like.”
“Thank you.” She took it. Then, very conscious of the sharp throbbing at her belly mingled with a sizzle of awareness, Macey tucked the shirt tail back into her waistband. “Er…now what happens?”
“You hunt vampires,” Chas said. And grinned.
~*~
There were speakeasies and gambling houses and brothels…and then there was The Blood Club.
Chas didn’t think much of the establishment’s name, but it wasn’t as if it were emblazoned on a sign over the door. Ah, no. Access to this exclusive club was limited to those who knew where to find it and how to enter.
Thus, he knew to patronize a tailor shop named Rico’s, and to ask for the trousers he’d dropped off a week ago. “To be double-stitch hemmed over the back of the heel,” he told the man behind the counter.
Roaring Midnight (The Gardella Vampire Chronicles | Macey #1) Page 11