Roaring Shadows

by Colleen Gleason

  Nothing. She felt nothing. No sense of foreboding or apprehension. She began to walk again, her attention now on high alert and her eyes constantly scanning the shadows, parked vehicles, and doorways. Nevertheless, she dragged out the silver cross from beneath her dress and slid one of the stakes from her garter. A mortal could be stabbed with it just as easily as an undead. She was prepared for either consequence.

  Once Flora realized her friend had started walking again, she began to put on what Macey could only describe as a show—the show of an innocent, oblivious woman strolling along a dimly lit, deserted street, completely unaware of the dangers ahead of her.

  The gangly redhead fairly danced along the sidewalk, turning backward as she skipped in happy circles to talk to Macey about nonsensical things—about the cute delivery boy who brought the milk every day, or their old piano teacher back in Skittlesville, or anything she could think of to make her appear distracted.

  It worked, and when Flora, with Macey several wary paces behind, reached the parked car they’d been watching, three men stepped out from behind the shadows.

  Macey’s fingers tightened around her weapon, but there was no sign of glowing red eyes, no increased chill at the back of her neck. And when she peered closely into the windows of the parked car around which the men had been hiding, she saw no sign of anyone lurking inside. Iscariot wasn’t waiting, and surely more than three measly men would have been sent to capture a Venator.

  She relaxed slightly, just as one of the men lunged for Flora’s arm.

  Her friend gave a convincing scream of surprise, but it was cut off when her assailant clamped a hand over her mouth. “How’s about we go for a ride, doll?”

  Before Macey could react, one of his companions accosted her, hands on his hips, standing directly in her path. He loomed over her, blocking the dark sidewalk.

  “Hey, little lady,” he drawled. “You and your friend are gonna join us for a bit of entertainment. We could use some dames to heat things up.” He reached for Macey’s arm, his smile wide and lascivious.

  Before she could retort, the third man slipped up behind her and Macey found herself sandwiched between the two. A quick glance indicated that Flora’s adversary was manhandling her—or so he must think—toward their parked vehicle.

  Macey allowed the greedy hand to close over her arm, cutting off a startled shriek of her own as she slid the stake into her pocketbook and exchanged it for the derringer.

  “No thanks,” she said once her fingers curled around the heavy metal weapon, which was hardly larger than her palm. “We’ve got other plans.”

  She moved quickly, exuberant with the freedom of her abilities, sliding her gun-filled hand out of the purse and whipping it around into the cheekbone of the goon behind her—who’d had the audacity to slide his hands around to fondle her breasts!

  He grunted and stumbled back as his companion used the grip on Macey’s arm to fling her sharply toward the parked car. But she was anticipating this, and Temple had taught her to use the momentum against an adversary. She turned sharply, ducking low and fast under his arm. He tripped as she spun him around, then gave a choked cry of shock as she moved on, leveraging him up and over onto the ground with a sharp thud.

  “Keep your hands to yourself,” she told him, placing her foot on his heaving chest. Her chunky heel, a short one tonight due to the possibility of this sort of activity, pressed firmly into his diaphragm. “And learn some manners.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the third man—the one whom she’d clocked with her tiny firearm—rushing toward her. Still pinning the panting man with a superhumanly strong force, she turned calmly and displayed the derringer. “Did you want a second round?” she asked brightly. “Or would you prefer I simply empty this round into your belly? Small bullets notwithstanding, I hear a shot to the stomach is a very slow and painful way to die.”

  The attacker caught himself just in time, and he seemed to get the picture. “All right, lady, geez,” he said, holding his hands up in surrender.

  “Get out of here, and take your friends with you.” Macey gestured with the gun, removing her foot from where she’d been pressing it slowly and steadily into the other man’s abdomen.

  They wasted no time disappearing into the darkness, leaving Macey to realize Flora and her assailant had disappeared. Probably into that dark alley.

  She had a moment of uncertainty, wondering whether her stronger, faster companion—who was able to enthrall at will—had really been overpowered by her attacker. The chill at the back of her neck was still present, so Flora couldn’t be far away…

  Just then, the slender, long-limbed figure of her friend emerged from the shadows between the two brick buildings that formed the alley. She fairly swaggered out into the glow of the streetlight, and Macey turned cold when she realized Flora was dragging the back of her hand over her mouth.

  She’d just fed.

  All at once, the scent of blood was in the air—as if it had been waiting for Macey to recognize it. Pungent, coppery, the smell rose above the smells of vehicle exhaust and rotting garbage, and even the essence of urine that tended to pervade the alleys and entryways of side streets like this.

  Gorge rose in Macey’s throat, putrid and burning, and she swallowed it back with difficulty. All at once, the knowledge that her best friend was required to subsist on the lifeblood of living beings rushed to the forefront of her mind. Their moments of being carefree, companionable, and silly drained away.

  Macey couldn’t pull her attention from Flora’s mouth. Though she saw no trace of blood or fangs, she knew what the woman had done. That she’d bit into human flesh, that she’d sucked and licked and taken from a person.

  And what had happened to her victim?

  Was he dead? Left for dead? Had he somehow miraculously escaped?

  Her stomach lurched again.

  “You took care of those two without batting an eyelash, did ya?” Flora said, lively and loud as ever. “That was fun. We make a good team, don’t we, Macey? Even now!”

  Macey felt lightheaded. “Where is he?” she managed to ask from between dry, stiff lips.

  “Where is who—oh.” Flora paused, then gestured to the alley with a casual thumb. “There.”

  Without another word, Macey strode past her, the handkerchief hem of her dress fluttering wildly about her calves. She made her way between the two dark buildings in the narrow passageway filled with garbage and other waste. The stench of blood was strong, and she could hear the gasping breaths of the man slumped against the wall.

  As she went to examine him, she felt a presence behind her. The back of her neck grew eerily chilly, and Flora’s long, angular shadow fell over them.

  Macey couldn’t bear to acknowledge her friend’s presence. Instead, she hoisted the man up, then flipped him over her shoulder. She staggered a bit at the sudden addition of weight, but once steady, it was no great task for her to stumble out of the alley toward the street.

  “I had to eat,” Flora said. Her voice was petulant and defensive.

  Macey closed her eyes for a moment, then walked past Flora, making her way back toward the busiest street. Blood from the victim seeped into her shoulder and along the loose material of her evening jacket, all the way through to her skin. She felt it oozing warm and wet, and the rusty stench filled her nostrils. The victim shuddered and gasped against her, his arms dangling, and occasionally one of his legs tightened as if he were trying to gather up the effort to free himself.

  Once at the sidewalk, Macey let him slide down onto his feet. She held him upright with a strong arm as she waited to flag down a taxi. While she waited, she dug a vial of salted holy water from her pocketbook and dumped it onto the victim’s wounds. He bucked and shuddered as the water hissed into the night air, but Macey held him firmly.

  Fortunately, it wasn’t long before a cab came along, and she whistled shrilly.

  The vehicle pulled up and she wasted no time easing the man into
the backseat. She tore off one of her stockings and wrapped it around the man’s neck to stanch the blood as much as possible. Then, instead of getting inside, she hobbled to the front on her shoeless foot and spoke to the driver. “He’s been injured. Get him to St. Joe’s Hospital right away.”

  The cab driver opened his mouth to argue, but she tossed two dollar bills into the seat next to him—a very generous fare. “Do it, or Al Capone will find you. I have your car number.”

  With this threat, she pulled back out of the cab and it squealed away. Tomorrow, she would go and check on the man.

  But for now, she had to decide what to do about Flora.

  Heavy of heart, ill in her stomach, Macey went back to where she’d left Flora.

  But when she returned, her redheaded friend was gone.

  * * *

  Grady abruptly became aware of his surroundings. He was sitting on the floor, slumped against the wall, arms immobile behind him. There was a thudding—seemingly everywhere—reverberating both along the floor on which he sat, and the wall against which he leaned, as well as at his temple.

  He forced his eyes open and realized the thudding was only on his temple, though it felt as if it were coming from everywhere.

  The place was dim, with a soft yellow glow to his right. Shadows moved quickly, bending and lifting, carrying bulky objects. Grady immediately knew where he was—in the warehouse, where the counterfeiters had been. Where they planned to remove their equipment and burn the place down.

  Damn.

  If the thudding of the printing presses was gone, that meant the gang was finished, and it looked as if they were packing things up…

  Grady pulled experimentally on his wrists and was rewarded with a soft rattle, and the feel of metal biting into his skin. Handcuffs. Better, in this case, than being confined with rope—though either option was workable.

  He smiled grimly and, using the wall, began to struggle to his feet. As he did so, he realized the handcuffs were locked around the pipe he felt directly behind him, which ran up and down along the wall.

  A trickle of cold swept down his spine. Had they meant to leave him here to burn when they set the place on fire? That would make them murderers as well as counterfeiters.

  His jaw set against the dull thud of pain, he managed to pull himself upright. Being attached to the pipe made it slightly easier, because he used it for leverage. Once standing, Grady set about extricating himself from the handcuffs.

  He bent at the waist and, before he began to work his cuffed hands down over his rear, he toed off both shoes. His stockinged feet made it easier for him to step out from between his bound wrists with first one foot, then the other. He was huddled on the floor by this time, due to the connection to the pipe, but once he’d stepped out from between his arms and turned, he was facing the pipe, hands in front of him.

  After this, it was child’s play to release himself. Acutely aware that the sounds of movement had ceased, Grady slid the cuffs back down the pipe to the ground and retrieved one of his shoes. They were special shoes, designed by Mokana, and had hollow heels. Inside the heels were several useful objects, including lock picks.

  When the great Houdini made his escapes from handcuffs and other bindings both in public and in private shows for law enforcement officers, he was normally stripped down to his skivvies. He was therefore unable to make use of special shoes like these, and found different ways to secrete the necessary lock picks on his person. But in this case, Grady’s captors had no reason to suspect he was outfitted with devices created for the business of magic and illusion.

  In very short order—he timed himself once the pick was held tightly in his teeth, and was pleased it took fewer than eighteen seconds to pick the lock; a personal record for this type of padlock—the cuffs popped open. He was free. He put his shoes back on and tucked the cuffs into his pocket.

  Now to catch some counterfeiters…and would-be murderers.

  It was just about that time he smelled smoke…and when he looked over, he saw the dancing glow of flickering flames where the gang had been, only minutes earlier.

  Damn.

  He had a choice: go after his captors or attempt to retrieve some of the evidence they were trying to burn. Neither way was an obvious home run when it came to getting what he needed for the cops.

  Grady ran toward the flickering shadows of flames, and when he got closer, he saw that the fire was relatively small—hardly larger than a generous campfire. They’d just started burning a pile of debris, but it was near a wooden bay and a pile of crates. He didn’t smell anything like accelerant.

  Presumably, the “evidence” was somewhere in the fire, or nearby…and then he remembered the large tarp. Spinning, uncaring whether anyone was around to hear him—though he sincerely doubted it—he dashed back the way he’d come and found the canvas cloth. It was large and heavy and dusty—but exactly what he wanted.

  Despite the canvas’s bulk and weight, Grady caught it up and ran back to the fire, which had grown significantly in size as it caught on to the old, dry wood. He unraveled the canvas and tossed it on top of the blaze…

  And with a whoosh, it settled into place, smothering the flames. Panting, Grady waited, but all was still. The fire was out, smoke filtering out through wrinkles in the heavy, thick canvas, and he had reason—not for the first time in his life—to be thankful he’d been introduced to Harry Houdini at the beginning of the Great War.

  Otherwise, Grady would certainly be on his way to a too-early grave.

  EIGHT

  ~ Brawl in the Powder Room ~

  As it was a Friday night, The Silver Chalice was packed with patrons. Macey could hear the sounds of revelry even from the street level, where a chalice-shaped newel topped the wrought iron gate that enclosed the stairwell leading from the sidewalk down to the entrance. That decoration was the only indication of the pub’s location, and one had to know it existed in order to look for it.

  A bar owned and operated by an undead had no need of windows. It was also tucked down beneath the street for privacy and security, its entryway a dark, seedy-looking area surrounded by a no-nonsense wrought iron enclosure.

  Macey pounded down the dark, narrow stairway in her clunky-heeled shoes. Noise and light spilled from the ajar door, and a bulky shadow stood, arms folded, in the underground alcove next to it. He was smoking a cigarette and spewed out a long stream of smoke as he eyed her.

  She ignored the man and pushed open the door. Immediately, her attention went to the bar counter, where the tawny-haired Sebastian Vioget stood. He was a study in gold, honey, and bronze, from the tips of his thick, tousled hair to the warm glow of his still sun-kissed skin, to the topaz of his eyes. One of the most angelic-looking and handsome men Macey had ever seen—and he was an undead vampire.

  Sebastian was pouring a row of drinks, his white shirt open at the throat and sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Amber-colored liquid—highly illegal, of course, and knowing Sebastian, most likely straight from France—splashed into the shot glasses. He never had to worry about The Silver Chalice being raided by the fuzz, for all he’d have to do was give the cops a good, long look in the eyes and they’d be putty in his hands.

  Macey took a step over the threshold. The door swung shut behind, and the noise and smells of the pub surrounded her: loud conversation, laughter and whistles, music from a piano, and the scents of smoke, alcohol, popcorn, and peanuts.

  Sebastian stopped suddenly, frozen in his movements, then fairly spun around toward her. Their eyes met across the room, over the heads of his patrons sitting at scarred, round tables and along the broad, glossy-topped bar.

  Macey felt the weight and power of his tiger-eye gaze from where she’d paused at the entrance. His eyes flashed gold, then became orange and red and hot. The tug was so strong, the sensation so sudden and intense, she felt as if she’d been dropped into a murky pond of warm water: everything around her slowed and became muted…lights, color, sound… She was trapped; sh
e was falling. She was flushed and loose and—

  “Well, look who the cat dragged in.” The tense words were accompanied by a tall, slender figure who stepped in front of Macey, interrupting the powerful thrall that had settled quite over her so unexpectedly.

  She shook her head, heart thudding. How had that happened? What had happened? She blinked hard, and the world settled a little more.

  “Temple,” Macey said, looking up at the elegant woman who’d positioned herself between her and Sebastian.

  “I’d ask where the hell you’ve been for five months,” said the woman, whose dark, almond-shaped eyes scored over Macey with concern and some ire, “but we can catch up later.” And then she relaxed a little. “That’s not your blood.”

  For the first time, Macey realized how she must appear—and that, in turn, made her understand why Sebastian had reacted the way he had. Maybe. There was blood all over the side of her neck and throat from Flora’s victim, which she’d slung over her shoulder. She shivered a little, for the dark intensity in his gaze had made even her—an experienced Venator, a friend and colleague of his—feel lost and out of control.

  Sebastian was just as powerful, it seemed, as Nicholas Iscariot. Perhaps more so, for he wore the vis bulla—and had power from both evil and the divine.

  “Even so,” Temple said, her slender, dark fingers tight around Macey’s arm, “let’s get you cleaned up.”

  Macey still felt a little out of sorts as she went with the other woman to wash up in a private powder room.

  “What happened back there?” she was compelled to ask as her companion handed over a wet cloth.

  Temple met her eyes in the mirror. “You walked in smelling of fresh blood.”