Roaring Midnight (The Gardella Vampire Chronicles | Macey #1)

by Colleen Gleason

  “Mr. Capone!” A flashbulb popped. “Is Johnny Torrio ever coming back?”

  “Hey, Snorky! Are you going to meet with the new mayor?” called another voice. Laughter spattered through the audience, for everyone knew Capone and Mayor Thompson were already very cozy.

  “Mr. Capone! What do you think of the city council meeting about banning smoking on the street?”

  The gangster gestured to the crowd at random, his cigar clamped between two thick, powerful fingers. “Now you don’t want to get me talking about business tonight, boys. I’m here to have a good time—and check out the competition.” He laughed and breezed on into the hotel.

  Macey shivered, a chill lifting the hair on her arms. She couldn’t believe she’d been less than ten feet away from one of the most dangerous men in Chicago.

  “How much longer should we wait for Flora?” Dottie was standing on tiptoes, presumably hoping that would allow her to see their taller friend’s approach. But the block was even more crowded now with people who were trying to catch sight of Capone, as well as those who didn’t have tickets for the gala but were hoping for a glimpse of the partygoers.

  “I left another message at her boarding house earlier today,” Chelle said. “Said we were going to meet here at seven. Her landlady said something about her being at work, though. It’s quarter till eight. She must not be coming. Let’s go in! I wonder if that lady will tell me where she bought her shoes.”

  “Yes. Even though we have tickets, Ben warned me it could get too crowded with crashers, and they might have to stop letting ticket-holders in.” Dottie took one last look up the street, frowning. “That’s too bad for Flora. I hope she at least got the message. That landlady of hers is a real bitch, and always drunk to boot.”

  Macey felt more than a little guilty as she followed her friends inside, but they couldn’t wait on the sidewalk all night. Then a spur of excitement nicked her as she stepped into the hotel lobby.

  Crowded with people, the space nevertheless didn’t feel close because the ceiling was so high. Graceful arches painted gold with art deco designs rose three stories above them. Red upholstered chairs and sofas were arranged in clusters throughout the lobby, the tables between them laden with massive vases of flowers.

  “Ben said to go toward the north-side dining area and find the powder room. There’s a cabaret in there, if you know the password to get in. We do.” Dottie’s eyes gleamed and her smile was bright. With her light blue eyes and shiny blond hair, she was an interesting mixture of sass and innocence.

  “We do?” Chelle asked, dragging her attention away from a woman in a red dress with gaudy makeup and a feathered turban. “Wait. There’s a cabaret in the powder room?” She giggled and tucked her hair behind her ear.

  Macey rolled her eyes and gave her a nudge. “Silly. Not in the powder room. Let’s go before it gets too crowded.” She adjusted her wrap, still a little chilled even though they’d come inside.

  Dottie was already leading the way. “Come on.”

  They found the powder room, which was a work of art unto itself. It was a Z shape with a row of private stalls to the left and the counter to the right. Past the sinks was another small wing with two large stalls, presumably for those who needed more room. The lounge was decorated in black enamel with gold and dark red trim. Vases of red roses sat on the gold and white marbled counters. The attendant sat in a chair offering hand towels, lotions, and perfume to each woman as she finished washing.

  To Macey’s surprise and interest, Dottie walked past the sinks and turned into the row of the larger stalls. She went into the farthest one, situated in the far corner of the small alcove. When Macey and Chelle hesitated, Dottie poked her head back out and beckoned.

  They exchanged amused glances and ducked in after her. The door, which, unlike most stall doors, went from floor to ceiling and swung closed behind them. Inside the small space was a sink with a mirror over it, and a commode.

  Dottie looked in the mirror and Macey was just about to poke her to get the show on the road when she raised both hands next to her ears and gave the mirror a pair of thumbs up.

  All at once, the empty wall in the stall moved, swinging back into nothingness.

  Dottie stepped through, and Macey and Chelle were right behind her. Only a week ago, Macey might have been more hesitant to walk through a secret door into darkness, but she was very conscious of how things had changed. Despite the lingering soreness of her muscles, she knew she had the power of the vis bulla with her—as well as having learned some potent self-defense moves from Temple. They would be just as effective on mortals as they would be on the undead.

  And so it was with confidence and a thrill of excitement that Macey walked into the dark space. She realized immediately that someone was there, sitting on a stool in the dark. The door closed behind her. At the same time, a light blazed in the darkness, revealing a set of spiral stairs descending behind a sturdy railing.

  “You ladies enjoy yourselves now.” The man sitting on the stool waved them on, flashing a gold tooth as he grinned. Macey was relieved to see that the way his two-way mirror was positioned, it would not give a view of the inside of the stall. Just in case.

  At the bottom of the stairs was another door, and behind it the sounds of music and activity. Dottie opened it.

  The cabaret was a large, windowless room with low lighting. A cloud of smoke had already formed near the ceiling and would likely get deeper and thicker before the end of the evening. The entrance through which Macey and her friends stepped was at the rear on a narrow balcony. Stretched out below and across the way was a low stage with a piano. A woman in a tight blue dress stood in front of a microphone and sang Irving Berlin’s “All Alone.”

  Around the perimeter of the stage and on several wide steppe-like strips of floor were tables and booths. Most were filled by well-dressed ladies and gentlemen, many of them smoking, and their conversation and laughter muted the entertainment. Servers rushed about with trays of food and drink.

  “Are you cold? Don’t tell me you’re nervous, Macey!” Chelle must have felt her shiver next to her.

  “No, I’m not nervous.” But all at once, Macey realized something she should have done much earlier. “Or cold,” she added faintly as an uncomfortable recognition settled over her.

  She’d felt that odd, uncomfortable chill over the back of her neck—which had caused the little shiver her friend noticed. She’d experienced the same strange sensation several times in the last week—in fact, every time she’d come into Sebastian’s presence. As well as the night of the raid at the The Gyro. And, most importantly, when the vampire broke into her flat last Friday night.

  Chas’s comment just before they went into The Silver Chalice for the first time—So you feel that, do you? Not bad for a novice—now made complete sense.

  What it meant, what that eerie, nauseating, finger-like chill over the back of her neck told her, was that there was an undead nearby.

  But as Macey looked out over the crowded, boisterous room, she wondered how on earth she was ever going to figure out where or who the vampire was. And what she was going to do about it.

  NINE

  ~ The Difference Between Hawks and Hounds ~

  Macey followed Chelle and Dottie down the steps from the balcony, all the while staring out over the crowded room. She held tightly to the railing so she wouldn’t trip, for her attention was not on her descent. Despite her intense observation, it would be impossible for her to tell who was a vampire, unless she was standing next to them.

  Which meant, she realized with a sudden unpleasant quiver in her belly, that she should probably figure out what to do if she did find one.

  Had she brought a stake?

  No. She didn’t have room for one in her tiny pocketbook, and frankly, she hadn’t thought about it. She didn’t plan on seeing any vampires tonight. It was her day off. Her evening out.

  Heart pounding, lips pressed together tightly, Macey wove her way
through the crowd in Dottie and Chelle’s wake. There wasn’t anything she could do at the moment. She’d have to play it by ear.

  The woman in the blue dress had finished her song and, after accepting an enthusiastic but random smatter of applause, left the stage. Moments later, a group of seven young women in shocking, skintight outfits that showed most of their legs and a deep vee of cleavage on each one, took the singer’s place. Around the crown of the head each of them wore a headband with tall, graceful feathers and a great number of sequins. A small band to the side began to play loudly, with an emphasis on brass and percussion, and the ensemble launched into their act: a singing and dancing routine that seemed to capture the full attention of every male in the place.

  Including Al Capone.

  Macey couldn’t help but notice the gangster, who’d taken a seat at a round, high-walled booth next to the stage. He seemed to be enjoying the performance, along with the others in his group.

  Just after receiving her vis bulla, she’d heard Sebastian and Chas talking about Capone and Count Alvisi, who was a powerful and dangerous vampire. From what she’d gleaned, they were concerned Alvisi would get to Capone—who was his mortal equal when it came to violence and power—and turn him into a vampire.

  Being turned undead required some participation on the part of the victim. After being drained of most of his blood, the mortal must then drink the blood of the siring vampire. Then he or she would slip into a state of unconsciousness, and upon awakening, would be turned.

  The other fear expressed by Sebastian was if Capone wasn’t made undead, then he might be enticed into becoming involved with the Tutela.

  “What’s the Tutela?” She figured she had the right to know what they knew, being a new Venator and heir to Il Gardella—whatever that meant. She’d read a little about the secret group in The Venators, but Macey had already learned there was much information missing or misconstrued in Mr. Starcasset’s book. Thus she took none of it at face value.

  “The Tutela is a secret society of mortals—men and women—who like to be around vampires. They are usually interested in becoming immortal undead themselves—or at least think they are,” Sebastian added with a grim smile. “They have a particular fondness for being fed upon by the undead, and are often obsessed with the lifestyle they crave for themselves. The vampires use them as servants or associates, for, of course, the undead can’t move about in direct sunlight. Having a loyal group of mortal followers who can do so, thus affording protection and conducting any business during the daylight hours, is a benefit to the vampires. And the mortals are lured by the benefits of power, protection, and—once having proven themselves—immortality, by pledging their service to the Tutela.”

  “There are people who actually enjoy being fed upon? Being mutilated like that?” Macey couldn’t comprehend that concept. She still remembered with revulsion the violation of her own flesh and blood when the vampire bit into her neck. “One would have to be insane to enjoy such a horrible thing. It’s no wonder feeding on a mortal is the point of no return for an undead.”

  “It’s not your place to judge. The same has been said for those who shoot their veins with heroin or smoke opium,” said Chas flatly. “Or even imbibe in spirits. Hence the Temperance movement, imposing its own morality on an entire nation.”

  Sebastian looked as if he were about to say something, then merely shook his head.

  Macey got the impression she was missing some undercurrent, but before she could probe further, Sebastian continued on a different topic. “Your ancestor Victoria attended a Tutela meeting in Venice as Count Alvisi’s guest. Back in 1819, I believe it was. Or thereabouts. He wasn’t undead at the time, but he was already wearing that abominable lavender after-shave cologne. It left a bloody damn cloud behind him everywhere he went. At least one always knew when he was in the vicinity.”

  “And so he is a vampire now?”

  “One of the most powerful ones. He and Nicholas Iscariot are particularly close minions of Lucifer. And both of them are here in Chicago. I’m certain it can’t be a coincidence.” Chas looked from Macey to Sebastian.

  “Iscariot. A relation of Judas, I suppose.”

  “Of course. The son of the Betrayer and brother of Lilith the Dark. Nicholas was imprisoned by his sister, and only upon her death did he gain release. He’s been wreaking havoc in Romania, Turkey, and Moscow for the last century. But what on earth has brought him here, I cannot fathom. He and Alvisi are fierce rivals and mortal enemies.” Chas looked pointedly at Sebastian. “Unless he’s realized the rings are here.”

  That was when Macey learned about the Rings of Jubai, the five copper bands fused to Sebastian’s fingers. “There is a magical pool in Romania to which these rings will give access. Inside the pool is, according to legend, a pyramid-shaped object that can yield great power to mortal and immortal alike. One can only suspect Iscariot has tried every manner of dipping his hand safely into the pool, and has finally decided to attempt the one sure way of breaching the magic shield.” He brandished his ringed hand.

  “That puts you in danger, then,” Macey said.

  Sebastian’s eyes glowed with humor, and his beautiful lips twitched. “Indeed it does. As it has done for decades. But I thank you for your concern.”

  Now, as Macey watched Al Capone and felt the telltale iciness at the back of her neck, it occurred to her that perhaps Count Alvisi had already accomplished his goal of turning the gangster into a vampire. Her mouth went dry and her organs turned into blocks of ice.

  I can’t stake Al Capone. I wouldn’t get within a foot of him before those goons shot me. But then again, that could be the reason no one had been able to kill him yet. He was impervious to bullets.

  “I thought you didn’t go into speakeasies.”

  Macey nearly jumped out of her skin at the low voice in her ear. She stifled her surprise, however, and turned to find Grady at her elbow. The ice inside her melted into something much warmer and friendlier.

  “What are you doing here? Covering the cabaret’s entertainment for the Tribune, I presume?” She looked up at him—all blue eyes, unruly dark hair, and broad shoulders. His square jaw and cleft chin were clean-shaven, and he smelled like something masculine and fresh. Her heart stuttered. He sure cleans up nice.

  “Something like that.” Grady stood close enough she could feel his warmth against her bare arm. “What are you doing here? Hoping to find a vampire?”

  Macey nearly choked. “What?” Her heart thudded harshly, the last vestiges of warmth frittering away.

  He took her arm, leaning in closer. “Don’t tell me you have a stake in that pocketbook of yours.”

  “Hey, Macey! Who’s this?” All of a sudden, Dottie and Chelle were standing there expectantly. Chelle’s eyes danced as she looked from one to the other, and she wagged her brows at Macey. Fortunately, Grady wasn’t looking.

  Macey made introductions, reminded again she didn’t know his full name. She felt odd about it, but her friends didn’t seem to notice. She was relieved when they launched into an animated conversation with Grady, who responded to their nosy questions (how do you know Macey, what do you do for a living, do you come to these places often) with charming aplomb.

  It gave Macey time to collect herself. Grady’s questions weren’t jokes; he’d been completely serious. But what did that mean? And how should she respond? Yes, as a matter of fact, I am a vampire hunter. But I forgot to bring a stake tonight. And I’m stalking Al Capone because I think he’s an undead. Call me crazy.

  Macey came back into the conversation just in time to hear Grady say, “Now, ladies—a word of warning. Don’t be drinking the whiskey here. Or anywhere cheap. The beer is usually all right if you really must imbibe, but anything stronger than that—whiskey, rum, or gin—is too dangerous.”

  “You mean illegal.” Was Chelle actually fluttering her eyelashes at him?

  “That too. But unless you’re about knowing where it came from, lass—where and how
it was distilled—don’t drink it.” He turned sober eyes on Macey. “Too many poisoning deaths from liquor distilled from methyl and wood alcohol. Even a small amount can be lethal. But it’s easy and cheap, and it’s what the low-level bootleggers are using all too often. I’ve seen the results.”

  “Surely the Palmer would pay for good booze,” Dottie said.

  Grady lifted a brow. “Surely the Palmer wouldn’t admit to paying for any booze.”

  “Oh. Right.” She blinked and smiled.

  “Thank you for the warning,” Macey replied. “Although I wasn’t intending to partake tonight.”

  “Want to keep your mind clear because you’re on the job, lass?” he murmured, his voice rumbling just below the cacophony around them and somehow going straight to her ears.

  She merely lifted her brows and tried what she hoped was a mysterious smile. “Speaking of jobs…don’t you have a story to investigate? People to interview? I’m going to visit the powder room and…powder my nose.”

  Before he could respond, she ducked away into the crowd.

  In the powder room, she found a place between two other gals in front of the mirror and checked her reflection. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright, but her hair still looked good. The wide headband with the velvet roses on it kept her wild mass of curls under some control, and they tumbled pleasantly around her jaw and the nape of her neck. Her velvet wrap was a little warm now that she was in a crowded space, but there was nothing else she could do with it. And her pocketbook…