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

by Colleen Gleason

  Disgusted with him as much as herself, she piked him with the stake. “Goodbye, Count Alvisi.”

  Brushing off his ash, she turned to find Chas holding his own with Flora and the other female.

  “Macey!” Flora cried.

  Holding her stake at the ready, Macey advanced, slipping behind Chas. She grabbed her friend by the arm and yanked her from the melee. “How? How did this happen?” Though her friend was taller than she and an undead, they were evenly matched in strength now that Macey wore the vis bulla.

  “You killed him,” Flora said, panting as she looked down at her. “Alvisi. You killed him. Just like that.”

  Macey hefted the stake in her hand. The running footsteps were nearly at the room. She knew what she had to do. Her mouth was dry. “He sired you. How…just tell me. Did you know what you were doing? Why? How could you do this?”

  Flora tilted her head and smiled, and for a moment, Macey saw her old friend. Funny, silly, awkward, happy Flora. Pain lanced through her, from her heart down to her gut. How? Why?

  “The night at The Gyro. Antony found me—he ran outside with me, or at least, he was waiting outside. He saved me. He was so handsome and attentive. I never had a fella treat me like that. At first, I didn’t know he was one of them. Then he introduced me to the pleasures of their kind—and then I found out who you were. What you were.” Her eyes flashed red and the sweet Flora was gone. “And I realized Antony only wanted me because of you.”

  “Antony? Do you mean Alvisi?” Macey could hardly breathe. She had to do this. Reinforcements were coming.

  “Yes. And now you’ve freed me from him. I do owe you for that, at least.” Flora smiled, and the sweet girl was back, sending another dull stab into her gut.

  But Macey gripped the stake. “I’m sorry, Flora. I don’t want to do this, but—”

  Vampires burst into the room behind her, and Macey swung her arm up, slamming the wooden pike into her friend’s chest.

  Flora screamed. Her eyes went wide and bloodred, her mouth open, fangs gleaming. “You bitch!”

  Macey staggered back and saw the blood on her stake, saw the red blossoming on her friend’s blue dress. No. She swung again, wildly, sick at heart, but Flora moved. Eyes narrowed with fury, teeth bared, she shoved with all her might, and sent Macey spinning into the wall. Her bad shoulder crashed into it and she cried out, stumbling back up and pivoting around after her friend.

  But another vampire jumped between them, and Macey had to adjust her strike at the last minute. Thud. Right into his chest. Poof.

  She whirled, staggering into a chair, and saw Chas swinging as he fought off three undead. Vaulting over the chair, Macey landed unsteadily on her feet, then surged into the hip of the nearest one. They tumbled to the floor, and she bit back a cry of pain as blood spurted from her injury once more. The undead rolled her onto her back, swiping down over her throat and chest with a long-nailed hand. Sharp pain seared as she bucked and twisted, unseating the vampire enough so she could swing up with her stake.

  Poof. Gone. Macey pulled to her feet just as another somersaulted over a table and crashed into her. Back to the ground, air knocked out, stake falling from her hand. It rolled across the floor, and the vampire looked down at her. With a vicious grin, he curled a hand around her throat and squeezed. She couldn’t breathe. His knee was in her bleeding shoulder. Her stake was out of reach.

  Just as he swooped, fangs at the ready, Macey saw a shadow behind him. Then suddenly, he was gone in an explosion of ash.

  And the room was still.

  Chas offered her a hand and yanked her up. Macey was panting, ill, and her wound throbbed like a flame. “I didn’t think you’d do it,” he said, hands on his hips as he tried to catch his breath. “I didn’t think you would.”

  “I missed.”

  “But you did it.”

  “Did you—did she…?”

  Chas shook his head. “She’s gone. Slipped away in the fracas. But you did what had to be done. You proved yourself, Macey. Well done.”

  The churning in her belly surged harder. She’d tried…but she’d missed. She’d missed her chance.

  And Macey wasn’t altogether certain she hadn’t meant to.

  SEVENTEEN

  ~ Reality in the Light of Day ~

  Macey emerged into the bright light of day, leaving Alvisi’s lair behind her. Chas was behind her, but she didn’t want to talk. She stayed ahead of him.

  The warm sun should have been a welcome sensation after such darkness, death, and destruction, but it only served to remind her of light, of normalcy, of happiness. Of life before.

  Dejected, exhausted, and sick at heart, she trudged down the street in silence, weaving among and between other passersby who had no idea what evil lived beneath their streets. She’d found a coat to hide the bloodstains on her dress, but there were splatters of blood on her face and throat. No one seemed to notice.

  Children gathered in parks, swinging, chasing each other, playing catch. Girlfriends linked arms and laughed at the soda fountain. Men jested on street corners while eating hot dogs. Mothers held the hands of dancing toddlers, pushed strollers, gave orders. Fathers carried children on their shoulders, managed dog leashes.

  And so life went on. So utterly normal. And good.

  Alvisi was dead. Flora lived. No, existed. Existed…owned and beholden to the devil. But lost to her. The look in her eyes told Macey there was no chance for redemption.

  What was left of her friend was well and truly gone.

  And Sebastian was still missing, but at least she knew who had him. Iscariot.

  Macey glanced up as she crossed the street and saw the huge Chicago Tribune sign emblazoned on its building. Another stab of grief tore through her belly, superseding the aching wound in her shoulder, the scratches and cuts and bites on the rest of her. Those would heal much sooner, and much more easily, than the loss of Grady in her life.

  J. Grady.

  She’d probably never learn his real name—unless it was someday listed on a byline in the paper—or, knowing him, even the masthead. If she could, if she hadn’t committed her life to her family legacy, she would keep walking…all the way to that Irish neighborhood where he lived, with his embedded silver crosses and dark, velvet eyes and soft, welcoming bed.

  But she was a Venator.

  Damned lonely life, being a Venator.

  Macey glanced over her shoulder. Chas was still there. Their work was not yet done. It would never be done.

  They had to find Sebastian. Somehow extricate him from Iscariot.

  Just as she was about to turn and suggest hailing a cab, a long, black automobile pulled up along the curb. Macey’s heart skipped a beat, but hell, she’d been through so much in the last few days. How could this be any worse?

  Since it was broad daylight, and three suited men were getting out of the vehicle—plus her neck was toasty warm from the sun—she knew vampires were not the current threat. However, bullets and knives could be a problem.

  “My boss has been waiting to meet with you,” said one of the men. He gestured to the open door. The bulge of a firearm was clearly visible from beneath his suit.

  “I appreciate the invite,” Macey said, hardly slowing her pace, “but it’s not a good time. I’m not in the best of moods.”

  But the man and his cohort blocked the way, and she was forced to stop. Other pedestrians crossed the street, unwilling to witness—much less be involved in—such a conflict.

  “Move,” Chas growled. One of the men stepped between him and Macey, producing a firearm, which he aimed boldly at Chas. Apparently, a handgun was going to have to be added to her vampire hunting tools.

  “Get in da car,” said the goon blocking her way. “I don’t wanna have to make a scene.” He shrugged sorrowfully as he showed her his gun. “But my finger’s twitchy.”

  Macey glanced at Chas, but it appeared she had no other choice. And the invitation was clearly for her, and her alone.

 
; “I hope you have something to drink in here,” she muttered, climbing into the limousine.

  To her surprise, the inside was empty. The doors closed and before she could wonder why the goons weren’t joining her, one climbed in the front seat, and the driver took off.

  “Who’s your boss?” she asked, checking to make certain her stake was still tucked in her garter. Her silver cross was long gone. Not that either would be of much help against Nicholas Iscariot, if that was indeed where she was going.

  Macey investigated the inside of the vehicle and found a small cooler with whiskey, glass tumblers, and—wonder of wonders—a large bottle of water. Half she used to clean up a little, and the other half she glugged down. Her wound from Chas’s stake had stopped bleeding again. She hoped it would finally have a chance to heal.

  By the time she’d dabbed at the rest of her injuries and eased her parched throat, the automobile pulled up to the backside of a tall, ornate brick building. The alley was narrow and deserted except for the man who waited at the door. He opened the vehicle to help her out.

  No one spoke other than to direct her inside and then aboard an elevator. Macey had never ridden in one that went so fast, and she swore it left her belly on the ground.

  Or perhaps it was nerves. For now she entered the den of a lion, alone and barely armed.

  The lift stopped at the floor labeled “Penthouse,” and that was when Macey realized it wasn’t Nicholas Iscariot who’d summoned her.

  Now she was really up a creek without a paddle. A stake wasn’t going to do any damage to a mortal…

  The twinge in her shoulder reminded her that wasn’t precisely the case. If she hadn’t been a Venator, Chas’s stake would have killed her.

  A set of double doors opened into the penthouse suite, which was beautifully and expensively appointed. Sofas and chairs were clustered at one side next to a set of French doors covered by filmy curtains. A large desk filled with papers, photos, and a container of writing implements stood to the right. There was a small grand piano with a cluster of silver candlesticks, a compact fireplace with a mantel displaying pictures and a vase of roses, and a hall that led, presumably, to bedrooms and a lavatory. Next to the door was a coat and umbrella rack with a mirror and half-moon table.

  A stocky, sleek-haired man of thirty stood next to the French doors. He was dressed in a dapper white suit and neat spats. He had a red rose tucked into his buttonhole.

  “Miss Denton. Welcome to my humble abode.” He smiled as she entered.

  “Mr. Capone.” Though her heart was lodged in her throat, Macey kept her voice cool and her gaze steady. “We meet again.”

  He smiled and beckoned jovially. “You’re a difficult broad to get at, you know.”

  “Most broads don’t appreciate being summoned into a vehicle at gunpoint.”

  “A guy’s gotta do what a guy’s gotta do,” said Capone.

  She stepped farther into the room, casting about for potential weapons, escape, and information. Two dark-suited men stood in the corner, watching silently. They were going to make things more difficult. “What do you want? I’m in a really bad mood and I don’t have any desire to spend my time with you or your Tutela friends.”

  “Tutela?” He laughed heartily. “You aren’t as well informed as I believed.”

  “I doubt that.” In the back of her mind, Macey could hardly believe she was challenging and baiting Chicago’s most dangerous criminal. Only a month ago, she would have been trying to hide tears of terror—or at least be holding herself up on trembling knees—if she’d been brought into his presence like this. Now, she simply didn’t care. She knew her abilities. And she knew the risks she’d taken on.

  And she didn’t care.

  Capone looked at his three goons, one of whom had been her escort. “Go.”

  Their exit left her alone with the infamous gangster. It was a perfect opportunity to—well, to do something. After all, how often was the man at such a disadvantage—and in the presence of someone who could beat him? Take him into custody?

  She looked around. A heavy wooden chair. A metal urn. Maybe there was a pair of scissors or a letter opener on the desk. No. The silver candelabra. She edged toward the piano.

  “You would use my hospitality against me?” he said, obviously reading her mind. His Brooklyn accent was strong, even though he’d been in Chicago for more than three years. “That would be a mistake. Especially since we can be of use to each other.”

  “Since I’m not in the market for a prostitute—male or female—and I don’t gamble, nothing could be further from the truth, Mr. Capone.”

  “I prefer Snorky.”

  “Snorky. Big Al. Scarface.” She purposely used his despised nickname. “I’ve heard them all. You’re wasting my time—and yours. You and I have no reason to do anything together.”

  “You’re going to be my personal bodyguard.”

  Macey gaped, then she could only laugh. “You’re delusional. As if I’d ever work for the likes of you. In any capacity.”

  “I ain’t got no problems with the fuzz or the law, or hardly with other gangs anymore. But it’s the vampires. They’re my problem,” he said, as if she hadn’t spoken. “And yours too.”

  “Well, that’s one thing we can agree on. But I’m not going to be your bodyguard.”

  “I pay very well. You’ll be dressed…” He sneered, then flapped his hand as if he couldn’t bear to see the state of her current attire. “Well, much better than that. I serve the best food, the best drink, and have the best entertainment. And you’ll have your own private suite—for when you aren’t on the clock.”

  “And you get shot at, you’re wanted for murder, bootlegging, racketeering, gambling, money laundering, and God knows what else.” Disgust dripped from her voice. “Why would I join your club?”

  Capone waved again. “They can’t pin none of that on me. An’ they won’t try. But the undead are a concern. They could put me outta business. Competition.”

  “And so the most powerful man in Chicago—oh, we both know you are; let’s not beat around the bush—is asking a woman—a broad—who’s half—no, a third your weight to be your bodyguard?”

  “Not just any broad. A Venator. The daughter of Max Denton.” He seemed delighted by her surprise.

  “So you’ve done your research. But that doesn’t change anything.”

  “You’ll be my bodyguard.” He directed her to the French doors. “This way, Macey.” He smiled coldly, and a streak of fear stripped down her spine. “Since you’ll be my employee, I think a first-name basis is acceptable.”

  Capone threw open the French doors to reveal an enclosed rooftop aerie with waist-high walls, outfitted like an outdoor living room. Chairs and benches were arranged on an area rug. Potted trees and red geraniums gave it the feel of a garden. Half the space was in the light, and the other half was shaded by a large umbrella. Once the sun moved across the sky, the entire rooftop would be covered by its bold heat.

  Macey stilled. In the shaded area, on what appeared to be a large, round table, was a man.

  Wearing only trousers hacked off at the knees, he was spread-eagled over the table, bound by wrists and hands. He was still in the shade, but the edge of the sun was only inches away from his right hand—where five copper rings glinted dully.

  Sebastian.

  EIGHTEEN

  ~ A Battle Lost ~

  “Damned good thing my men found you when they did. Another ten, fifteen minutes and Mr. Vioget—he’d be very uncomfortable.” The pungent scent of cigar smoke wafted through the air as Capone wandered across the rooftop.

  Macey was already at Sebastian’s side. His head hung upside down from the table, and he blinked groggily when she touched his arm. Bruises and cuts battered his bare torso and muscular arms. They’d sure as hell worked him over—they would have had to, in order to subdue a man with his cunning and strength. Even so, he was still strong and beautiful, like a golden lion ready to roar to action. And
there was his vis bulla, settled like a tiny silver pool in the hollow of his navel. For a moment, she couldn’t take her eyes off it.

  “A pleasure to see you, Macey,” Sebastian said, lifting his head to look at her with a crooked smile. Despite his obvious discomfort, his amber eyes were warm, glinting with levity and resolve. “No offense, but I was rather hoping you wouldn’t make it in time. Then he’d have nothing with which to hold you.”

  She was already working on the knots at the wrist nearest the sun, but froze when something poked her in the back. The barrel of a gun.

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” The cigar smoke curled around her. “Your friend will be freed as soon as you agree to my terms.”

  “Forget it, Macey. It’s time. I’m ready to go—though, admittedly, it’s not the way I’d have chosen. I have an aversion to pain, you know.” Sebastian’s voice was wry and strong. He grabbed at her hand with his left fingers, squeezing hard. “But it’s best you’re here to see it. And to take these.” She knew he meant the Rings of Jubai, on that very hand.

  “You aren’t going to fry,” she said, squeezing back and surreptitiously picking at the knot. “I won’t let you, and neither will Mr. Capone.”

  The gangster had eased back around to face them while keeping the gun trained on her. “That’s up to you, Miss Denton. Step away now or I’ll use this. One bullet won’t kill you, especially where I’ll put it—but it’ll slow you the fuck down.”

  Macey edged away, her attention darting about the roof. Nothing looked promising—the chairs were flimsy and wooden. The flowerpots too ungainly.

  “Do you accept my proposal or not?” her host pressed.

  “No.” She moved like lightning, grabbing a chair and spinning at the same time. She slammed it into Capone’s gun arm, and the chair splintered as the weapon tumbled to the ground, skidding across the concrete floor.

  To her surprise, instead of going after it, he lunged toward her. But Macey dodged and he caught only a fragment of her dress. It tore and she spun away, dashing into the penthouse. Candles went flying as she grabbed the metal candelabra from the piano and swung back to face him, holding it like a baseball bat.