Roaring Shadows

by Colleen Gleason

  Everything was still but for her panting breaths and the sounds of her feet scuffing the floor.

  Silence. Nothing.

  She held her breath, listening to her body: the sensation at the back of her neck, the prickle of hair along her arms, the putrid scent of burned vampire flesh and embalming fluid…and there was nothing.

  He was gone. Could he really be gone?

  Her fingers shook and her knees trembled and she waited…and waited.

  Iscariot had gone.

  All that remained was the eerie chill of an average undead—Danny Fanalucci.

  Macey wasted no more time. She turned to the vampire and plunged her stake into his heart, shoving it through tissue and breastbone until she felt the little pop that told her she’d hit her mark.

  Fanalucci seemed to shudder, and his eyelids fluttered—and then, just as she withdrew her stake, he exploded in a cloud of foul-smelling dust. Something metallic clinked onto the floor.

  Coughing, panting, her knees still terribly weak, Macey brushed the ash from her dress and shoulders. She considered—briefly—sweeping it up, but there wasn’t all that much of it, and vampire dust would disintegrate for the most part anyway. Besides, she wanted to get away from here.

  She shoved the now-empty drawer back into place with a dull metal clang and looked around the room one more time.

  Empty. Silent.

  And yet the essence of malevolence and dark power remained.

  * * *

  Anger and residual terror fueled Macey as she left the morgue and stalked along the dark, deserted streets. Her knees still shook and she felt vaguely nauseated—and more than a little stunned that she was still alive, all things considered. But more than that, she was blind with fury.

  She could have hailed a taxi, but part of her almost wished she’d encounter someone who meant her—a female alone—harm. She had a lot of pent-up energy ready to explode. Nevertheless, she made it to the wrought iron railing topped by an ornamental goblet with no incident.

  She clomped down the stairs with unsteady knees and had her fingers on the door to The Silver Chalice before she realized what she was doing.

  “Damn.” She snatched her hand away and looked down at herself: disheveled and streaked with blood. Her own blood this time. She was still rattled from the encounter with Iscariot, still disbelieving he’d actually left—disappeared in that curl of smoke.

  She couldn’t go into the pub looking and smelling like this. But by God, she was going to speak to Sebastian—or Chas.

  The door opened, narrowly missing slamming into her at the base of the small, subterranean stairwell. A man staggered out and she grabbed him by the scruff of the shirt.

  “Go back in there and fetch Chas Woodmore.”

  The man blinked, and tried valiantly to focus on her. “Chats who? You need more wood?” His eyes fell to her neck and then her bloodstained dress. “What in hell happened to—”

  “Chas. Wood. More. Fetch him now.” She spun him back toward the door and shoved him back through, hoping Chas was, in fact, inside.

  But it wasn’t yet near dawn, and surely he was out hunting vampires, saving innocent mortals from their rapacious fangs.

  Which was what Macey was supposed to be doing instead of kissing Al Capone’s ass.

  That was her legacy. The one she shared with her father… Was it possible he was still alive?

  But instead of doing her duty—ridding the world of as many vampires as possible—she was fumbling around at the whim and will of a brutal gangster…and losing her cool when confronted by a powerful undead.

  She couldn’t deny she wanted to be sick at the thought of Iscariot’s hands on her…his fangs, driving deeply into her throat and drawing her lifeblood out in long, whistling drags. Her insides were like a mass of writhing snakes, and cold terror still lingered like an icy finger tracing her spine.

  But she’d burned the creature. She’d burned him.

  “Macey?” Suddenly Chas was there—clearly surprised, but not displeased, to see her. “It is you.”

  She gathered her thoughts and looked up at him as the man whom she’d sent to collect Chas brushed by in a cloud of drunkenness to make his way up the steps. “Why didn’t you tell me my father is alive?”

  Chas frowned. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “My father. Is he alive?”

  “Hell no, as far as I know, he isn’t. What makes you think otherwise?”

  A wave of emotion shuttled through her. Something between relief and anger and what doctors called “shock.” Chas, at least, hadn’t been lying to her.

  Either that, or he was a hell of an actor.

  “You look like you’ve just come from doing your job,” he added. “It’s about time you told Al Capone to fu—”

  “I was at the morgue. Iscariot was there. He…” Her voice wavered, but damned if she was going to let herself show any more weakness than she already had tonight. “He told me my father is still alive.”

  Chas’s eyes narrowed as a range of emotions rushed across his face. “You escaped from Iscariot? Don’t tell me you killed him—Christ, did you?” His eyes widened.

  Macey shook her head. “We fought, and then he just…disappeared. In a puff of black smoke.” She kept her voice steady with effort. “After I smashed this in his face.” She produced the cross.

  The door opened before Chase could reply. Noise and the sour stench of stale beer poured from the pub as three patrons angled their way none too gently through the bottom of the narrow passage.

  “We better get out of here before Vioget gets a whiff of you,” Chas said. “You can tell me everything.”

  “No,” she replied. “And since I can’t go in there now, you’d best find out from Sebastian whether he knows.”

  She’d barely put a foot on the lower step when Chas took her arm. “Where the hell are you going?” When Macey turned, he must have read the answer in her face, for his own expression darkened. “Back to Capone?”

  She shook free of his grip and stared him back down. “We all have our faults and weaknesses, don’t we, Chas? I’ll be in contact as soon as I can.”

  Without another glance, she clomped up the steps. Yet, though she could leave behind her fellow vampire hunter, as well as the man she thought of as her mentor, Macey knew she was neglecting even more than that.

  She was abandoning her family legacy.

  THIRTEEN

  ~ A Coming to Terms ~

  Macey hadn’t made it to the end of the block when she felt him behind her.

  She spun just as Chas lunged. “You’re not going back there.” His grip was painfully tight around her arm as he put fingers to his mouth and gave a sharp whistle.

  “Let me go.” She gave a rough jerk to pull free, but he was strong and very determined…and maybe she didn’t really have the desire to fight that hard.

  At least, that was what she told herself as he muscled her toward the black car that rolled up silently. She made another token protest, which Chas ignored as he unceremoniously bundled her into the backseat.

  “Who the hell do you think you are? Al Capone?” she muttered as he shoved her legs out of the way and climbed in after her.

  “Bite your bloody tongue,” he said, then spoke to the driver, whom Macey recognized with a start as a regular at The Silver Chalice. “My house.”

  “Since when do you have your own private automobile?” she said, hoisting herself upright onto the seat next to him. The vehicle was not a luxurious stretch like Capone’s, so there was only the one bench seat in the back.

  “Not mine. Vioget’s. A recent acquisition—after his unexpected ride in Capone’s limousine. But he lets me use it as necessary.” Chas settled into the corner. “I’m sure he’d approve of this trip.”

  He slung his arm over the back of the seat, and when one finger brushed against her shoulder, he didn’t seem to notice. Nor did he move it. He did, however, seem to be noticing everything else. Macey
watched silently as his eyes tracked from the windows on each side of the auto, then out the windshield, then back again. He was on guard for Capone’s goons.

  And perhaps for Iscariot.

  Macey couldn’t control a little shudder, and she reached automatically for her cross. The one that surely had saved her life. She still felt a twinge pulsing from the scar Iscariot had raised down along her torso.

  “Cold?”

  “No.”

  “You can relax now, you know.” He gave her a little poke at the back of the shoulder.

  Five months ago, Macey probably would have argued with him. She might have retorted she didn’t need anyone to protect her or take care of her, and she didn’t need to relax.

  But she’d changed.

  * * *

  Chas felt the tension ooze from Macey’s body as she finally let go of everything and slumped further into the corner. Her fingers uncurled and her eyes drifted closed. He set his teeth grimly and continued to watch the shadows and streets, to read the back of his neck and listen to his instincts…watching and waiting for danger in both mortal and immortal form.

  So Max Denton was still alive…if Iscariot could be believed. He wondered what the hell Denton was thinking, abandoning and ignoring his daughter for more than a decade.

  Sometimes life is too painful to remain part of it, isn’t it, Chas?

  Wayren’s words to him—oh, more than a century ago, after everything had happened with Narcise—suddenly rang in his mind.

  Well, he couldn’t argue with that. He was fortunate Wayren had given him an out, a detour…an escape. He wondered what Max Denton’s escape would be. A dark, violent, solitary life…then death?

  Well, hell. Just like the one Chas was living.

  The car eased to a halt in front of St. Anselm’s Church. The cross atop its squat spire made a nice shadow in the middle of the street, and, occasionally, that shadow fell across the window of Chas’s upper-floor apartment in the building next door. A nice little deterrent for the undead.

  Chas slipped Ned a few bills as well as a message for Vioget. Of course, Sebastian paid the man a salary, but Chas saw the value in having his own relationship with the driver. At the sound of Ned’s murmured thanks, Macey blinked and shook her head as if to clear away the cobwebs, but Chas didn’t risk the delay of waiting for her to haul herself to her feet. Instead, he tugged her out of the backseat and ushered her through the hidden doorway that led to his place.

  It wasn’t until he got her inside his small apartment and turned on the lights that he saw the blood. It wasn’t as if there was that much of it…it was just where it was. In a long, neat line down the front of her dress, bisecting her torso. And there was a rusty ring around one breast.

  “Christ,” he said to cover his shock, “this is getting to be a damned habit of yours, arriving at my place looking half dead.”

  She looked up at him from under a tangle of dark curls, her eyes gleaming with something almost unholy. Her fingers trembled a little as they gripped the back of the sofa, but her voice was strong. “Let’s be honest, Chas. I’m here because you want me here—not because I need to be here, or because I need you.”

  “Is that so?” He pulled out the glass Mason jar labeled “vinegar” from under the tiny sink in his kitchenette and unscrewed the top. The whiskey—good stuff, but not as good as what Vioget served—sloshed into two fairly clean glasses as silence reigned. “Drink up.” He shoved one toward her.

  To his surprise, she stepped away from the sofa and leaned against the counter, taking the glass. She swallowed a healthy sip, watching him over the rim with those big, dark eyes. When she lowered the glass, her lips glistened invitingly and she was still looking at him. Very pointedly.

  “Is that an invitation?” he said.

  “The life of a Venator is a lonely one. Or so you’ve pointed out to me numerous times.”

  She threw his words back at him without coyness or invitation, and Chas mentally shook his head as he lifted his glass and drank. Damn, she was getting to be a handful. Give the woman a vis bulla and a pair of hot, velvety brown eyes—not to mention a reason to go a few verbal rounds with him—and he was very nearly in over his head.

  He itched to touch her…no, to be more specific, he itched to shove her against the wall, tear off that stained dress, and drown their respective sorrows in a blur of heat and passion. And from the look of her expression, she wouldn’t mind some mindless sex one bit.

  “We both know it’s been brewing for a while,” she said, holding his eyes with hers. They were firm, cool, steady—almost emotionless. “You and me. And now, here we are, with no Sebastian and no Temple and no Capone. No one to interfere, and the sun’ll be rising any minute now—so no more hunting the undead tonight. So why don’t you follow through on your offer and show me your vis bulla, Chas? And maybe I’ll show you mine.”

  “I’ve already seen yours, lulu. However…” He set his glass down with a soft, deliberate thunk. Still watching her, holding her gaze meaningfully, he removed the drink from her grip, saying, “Let me take that for you. It’d be a waste to spill such good contraband.”

  He’d barely released the glass onto the counter—sloppily enough to slosh a bit—than he was dragging her to him by a fistful of her dress.

  Macey met his mouth eagerly, her lips firm and mobile. She tasted of whiskey and salty perspiration, and her powerful, lithe body felt terrifyingly slight in his arms. She was damp and a little sticky, scented with blood and sweat—probably even tears as well—but she was warm and ready, soft and curvy, and the essence of female musk clinging to her skin was enough to make Chas exhale with relief. He was very ready for this…and was growing more so as she pressed against him, her hands gripping his shoulders, her hips flush against his.

  Though small and slender, Macey was as strong as he, so Chas had no compunction about being a little forceful, a little rough, and a lot demanding. He kissed her hungrily, delving with a strong, thrusting tongue and nibbling at her lips. She seemed to enjoy it, gasping a surprised laugh against his mouth when he yanked her dress open. Buttons flew, and the lace and cotton tore a little when he pulled the neckline down over her shoulders. They were delicate white shoulders…marred by two small wounds on one side of her neck.

  Chas paused when he saw them, and then noticed the slender red scar trailing from the top of her sternum down behind her undergarment…and another around the front of one breast, encircling the areola. Even in the hazy moment of lust and desire, he recognized the marks weren’t exactly fresh…yet they still oozed blood.

  Macey didn’t seem to appreciate the halt to things, for she took matters into her own hands and began to work at the buttons down the front of his shirt. “Where is it, Chas?” she muttered, pulling the cotton down over his shoulders and then plucking his undershirt from the waistband of his trousers. “Where is your hard-won vis bulla?”

  But she’d already found it—her fingers quick and nimble, sliding under the cotton of his shirt to capture the small silver cross he wore pierced through the upper lip of his navel—just as she did. When she touched it, Chas felt a sizzle shoot through him that had less to do with lust than blatant power. He gave a little laugh as she gasped in surprise—for a Venator touching a vis bulla would always cause a spark of energy—and pressed her hand against it and the vibrating muscle of his belly. The power leapt between them again, sending a strong rush of pleasure funneling sharply to his straining cock.

  He released her hand and brought Macey up close along his body, angling one of her thighs along his hip so she could feel his arousal as he deftly unlaced her brassiere. She was panting a bit, soft, sexy little sounds that made him want to yank off the rest of her clothes and toss her on the sofa and make her moan a little louder.

  When he peeled her undergarment down far enough to uncover her breasts, he gave a low hum of delight at the curvy, perky sight. Macey shifted impatiently against his johnson, using the waist of his trousers to pull h
im closer, even grinding against him a little. Well, a lot, actually.

  “Whoa there, lulu,” he murmured, shifting away a little as he slid a hand up under her dress to bare a slender, muscular leg. She was warm and soft, and he itched to touch her right where she was lush and hot and wet. “Let’s not rush things.”

  “I don’t mind rushing things,” she told him, reaching for the fastening of his trousers and ripping it open.

  For the first time in a while, Chas looked down at her face. Even through the fog of lust and need, he registered the expression there: dark, set, determined, and needy.

  Just the same, he supposed, as the look on his own countenance. “All right then,” he muttered, propping himself against the back of the sofa and pulling her along with him. His trousers sagged and he let them fall around his ankles as she dragged his boxers out of the way. Skirt high on her thighs now, his hands holding the flowing fabric out of the way, he hoisted her up onto him as she gripped his shoulders.

  “Oh,” she said as he slid home, deep and slow, into her warmth. The sound penetrated his fog of lust and he wanted to drag more from her: more pleasure, more soft gasps and sighs, more nails digging into his skin, more hot, sleek kisses.

  He moved, carefully at first, but that foolish restraint lasted only a moment. She was clearly impatient, and so was he, and Chas saw no reason to hold back. Macey used her feet for leverage against the sofa, and they slipped into a fast, hard rhythm laced with sighs and moans of building pleasure.

  Chas saw her eyes flutter just before she came, her head tipping back as she gripped his shoulders, her mass of dark curls bouncing and tumbling around her cheeks and chin. As she shuddered against him, hard and sharp, he let go with a long, low moan of relief and pleasure, and it mingled with her own gust of release.

  He managed to keep hold of her with one arm braced around her waist, though his knees buckled a little and his stockinged toes curled with pleasure. Breathing hard, damp with pleasure and exertion, he sagged against the sofa, eyes closed, and fought off a riot of conflicting emotions that threatened to shatter his bliss.