Something like eternity.
The dust settled and the church became silent. And all that remained was the silver-tipped stake, the glittering rosary, and five copper rings.
THIRTY
~ Decisions and Answers and a Compliment ~
“Nothing’s changed,” Macey said, her voice taut with emotion.
She and Grady had made their way back to The Silver Chalice. Dawn was just breaking and the storm was over. The two of them were alone in the pub. All was silent and dark.
“Everything’s changed,” Grady shot back. He yanked away the collar of his shirt, soaked by rain and blood. “I was fed on—multiple times—by your redheaded friend. Don’t tell me nothing’s bloody changed.”
She balked a little at the sight of the raw vampire wounds. “Salted holy water,” she began.
“Already done. I had some in the heels of my shoes last night. Along with lock picks. And a small smoke bomb tucked inside my stocking, with matches to set it off—which, as you recall, was the reason we were able to escape undetected. I had a stake in my pocket and this,” he said, producing a series of three finger-sized pieces of wood. “It’s a stake—you see, you screw the pieces together, but they come apart so they can fit in a smaller place. Like the inside of my shoe.” His blue eyes blazed. “Don’t tell me I don’t know what I’m doing, or what I’ve gotten myself into, Macey. You can’t use that as an excuse anymore.”
She could only gape at him in astonishment, even as terror bubbled inside her. “You don’t understand,” she said, taking him by the arms. “My father—”
“The hell I don’t.” As when he was truly angry, there was no trace of the Irish—just hard, sharp words. “I understand more than you can possibly realize after seeing you fighting for your life—for my life, and for Sebastian’s. I saw you—I saw what you experienced, how powerful you are, and how much responsibility you have. I understand.”
“So did my mother,” Macey whispered. Tears filled her eyes, causing his dear, handsome face to become blurry. “And she became the target of the undead, simply because she was married to my father. They tortured her, Grady. What they did to her…it was worse than what Iscariot did to Mrs. Gutchinson. And it destroyed my father.” She was shaking her head. “I don’t want you to be hurt…and I don’t want to be destroyed. I have work to do.” She tried to make her voice sound cold and hard, but failed miserably.
This was hard. This was so hard.
“Sounds like a little bit of cowardice to me,” he said flatly. “But I guess I should take it as a compliment that you care so much.”
You have no idea how much I care. “You saw what happened last night—you saw the horror and the violence and the evil. But what you don’t understand, you can’t understand, is that it’s like that every day for me. Every day. Every night. I don’t get to rest. I don’t get to sleep. I don’t get to take time off. I don’t get to walk away. Ever. But you can, Grady.” The tears were coming faster now, and her voice shook with emotion. “You don’t want that kind of life—lonely, violent, and dark. You don’t deserve it.”
“Macey,” he said, pulling her into his arms. “What you don’t understand is that I’m in love with you. I willingly take on that life to be with you, to be by your side, to support you—and, when there is a chance—because you know there must be—I’ll be there to make love to you, to hold you, to drive away the demons…if only for a short time. Your father had that with your mother, didn’t he?”
She, so much stronger and more powerful than Grady, suddenly felt unaccountably weak and fragile in his arms. Her tears were soaking his shirt, and she could smell the familiar scent of his skin, taste the salt from both of them, feel the warmth of his body.
“You forget, a rún,” he murmured into her hair, “I was in the War. I’ve seen violence for days and weeks and months on end. I grew up on the streets of Dublin surrounded by misery and greed and death.”
“It’s not the same.” She pulled away. “This war—my war—it never ends. It won’t end until I’m gone.”
“And I’d be there with you till then, Macey, lass.”
Something shuffled softly behind her and they both turned. Macey blinked, for Wayren stood there. This was the first time Macey had seen her since receiving her vis bulla.
The first time in almost a year.
It must be because of Sebastian.
“I’m Wayren.” She spoke to Grady.
He looked at her for a prolonged moment, then said, “Somehow, I’m certain you already know my name.”
She gave a brief smile and inclined her head. “May I speak with Macey for a moment?”
Grady nodded and turned away, walking to the other side of the room.
“What do you want?” asked Wayren. She looked at Macey with pale, clear blue eyes.
As always when in the presence of this enigmatic being, Macey felt a rush of comfort and peace. And strength. “I want him to be safe. I don’t want to be like my father, risking the life of someone I love so I can selfishly be with him.”
Wayren held her eyes. “Loving someone is never selfish.”
Macey shook her head. “That may be, but I am not going to be my father. I won’t be responsible for Grady being hurt.”
“And if I could fix the problem…is that what you truly want?”
“How?” Macey asked cautiously.
Wayren dug in the small pouch that dangled from her chatelaine’s belt and produced a delicate chain with a flat, golden disk on it. “This has been used for centuries to help remove the memories of people who unwittingly—or even purposely—have become exposed to the world of the Venators and the undead.”
Macey looked at it and felt a shiver of the power emanating from it. “This is the pendant that belonged to Victoria’s aunt Eustacia?”
“It was given to her for her use. Would you like me to use it, Macey?”
She didn’t have to think about it. “If it will keep him safe, keep him from seeking out the vampires, then do it. Yes.”
“Even if it will erase all of his memories in relation to this—including those of you?” Wayren’s gaze bored gently into Macey’s. “He would no longer know you.”
Her heart thumped unpleasantly, and she glanced over at him. The little knot inside her tightened, but she nodded. “Yes. But”—she grabbed Wayren’s arm—“it might make him forget everything, but Iscariot and Flora—they’ll still remember him. He’ll still be a target for them, won’t he?”
Wayren cocked her head like a bright-eyed bird. “Unlikely, if there is no longer a connection between the two of you. But if it makes you feel better, I can give him something that will help. He won’t know what it means, but it will help him sense when there is a danger or threat.”
“Yes, please, Wayren.”
“You’re certain? You’re certain you wish to release him, to give him up, to erase all his memories of you and everything that has occurred?”
Macey’s throat was tight, and it burned, but she nodded. “Yes. Please. Do it, Wayren. Do it now.”
“Very well then.”
“Wayren.”
The woman turned back expectantly. “You’ve changed your mind?”
“No, no…just…do you know…will Linwood live? I don’t want—well, he shouldn’t lose him too.” Macey’s eyes stung once more.
Wayren looked up and to the side, as if listening or waiting, pausing for a moment. Then she returned her attention to Macey. “He’ll live.”
“Thank you.”
Macey watched as the slender blond woman seemed almost to glide over to Grady. She spoke softly to him, placing a hand on his arm. He didn’t look over at Macey. Instead, he nodded, and Wayren led him away.
Goodbye, Jameson Grady.
Macey wiped her tears roughly and turned sharply…and nearly walked into Chas.
“You’ll get over it, lulu,” he said, and drew her into his embrace with his one good arm. “I just hope you don’t have to travel a century
to do so.”
* * *
“Are they the real Rings of Jubai?” Macey asked.
She set the five copper rings on the bar counter in the silent, empty Silver Chalice.
It was late the next day, and in some ways, she felt like a new person: cleaned up, rested, finally rid of Al Capone, and no longer worried about Grady. Back where she belonged.
But in other ways, Macey felt completely bereft. Lost. And alone.
And filled with questions.
The one about the rings happened to be the simplest of them all.
“They came from Sebastian, didn’t they?” said Temple. Her face was drawn and her eyes echoed the weariness and grief they were all feeling, now that Sebastian was truly gone. She of them all had spent the most time with him in the last months. “Why wouldn’t they be?”
It was just the two of them, sitting in the pub—Macey on a stool and Temple behind the counter. In honor of the place’s proprietor, Temple had poured each of them a shot of a rosy-amber-colored liquor they found under the counter.
“Never seen this one before,” Temple had said when she pulled out the square, glass-cut bottle. Its topper was a black pyramid shape. She sniffed inside before pouring to make certain it wasn’t one of his blood-whiskeys. “Must have been something special he kept hidden from Chas.”
“Must’ve been. To Sebastian.” Macey lifted her glass and sipped. The liquor was very smooth, very warming. She’d never tasted anything like it. When she replaced the glass on the counter, she explained to Temple about the copper ring she’d found in Sebastian’s bedside table. “I wonder if he had an extra made so that if Iscariot did dust him, he wouldn’t have all the rings. Maybe he was able to take off one of the rings, and used a fake one as a replacement. Or maybe he was just prepared to be able to do so, if a miracle ever happened.”
“But then Iscariot would have been searching for the missing one,” said Temple. “And you know he’d come after you first.”
“True. But then he wouldn’t know it wasn’t the real one until he tried to use the fake one, right? At the pool at Munții Făgăraș. And from what I know about that pool, if you put your hand in without the proper protection…you might not even live to seek revenge on someone who tricked you.” She shrugged.
“That is an excellent point, sister.” Temple lifted her glass. “Sebastian was very clever.” She blinked rapidly, then ducked to put the square bottle beneath the counter, thus averting her gaze. “I didn’t get to say goodbye.”
“I didn’t either. It happened so quickly. But he was…joyful at the end. Because he was with her.”
“He saved her, you are sure, aren’t you?” Temple asked. “You have no doubt?”
“If I see Wayren again, I’ll ask her to be certain, but I am sure of it.”
“You’ll ask me what?”
She and Temple turned. Somehow, Macey wasn’t surprised that Wayren was there once more, having somehow arrived with no fanfare and without even using the door. To her surprise and pleasure, however, Chas was there as well.
“Whether Sebastian’s long promise has been fulfilled?” The ethereal blond woman made her way over to the counter. “You know it has. You saw it for yourself, Macey. You need not second-guess what you already know—now and in the future.”
“You shouldn’t be out of bed, Chas,” Temple told him with a dark look. “Even for a Venator, you need time to heal.”
“I’m fine. Just a little sore.” Chas settled onto a stool at the bar, moving gingerly. “Macey’s questions might be answered, but I have some of my own, if you please.” He looked pointedly at the empty glasses on the counter, but Temple either didn’t notice, or chose to ignore him. Macey suspected it was the latter.
“Those are the rings?” Chas said, poking them with a finger. “Who’s going to put them on and wear them for the next century?” They all chuckled, but when he reached as if to gather them up, Wayren stopped him with a quiet clearing of the throat.
“That won’t be necessary, Chas. We’ll return them—yes, they are the original Rings of Jubai—to St. Patrick’s, where they will be safe until and unless we need them. The rings and the rosary both. You, however, should keep the stake.” This last was spoken to Macey.
“Speaking of the rosary…I’m not sure I understand what happened. Why did that seem to repel Sebastian when the big silver cross didn’t?” she asked.
“But did it? Did the rosary repel him?” Wayren replied.
Macey thought back, bringing the moment back to the front of her mind. “No. No, it didn’t repel him so much as it seemed to…well, wake him up. It was like a light switch—as if the button was pushed and Sebastian went from mad and desperate and evil to…himself.” The hair on the back of her arms lifted with a gentle prickle. “It seemed to jolt him from out of a dream.”
“Indeed.”
Macey went on, for things were becoming clearer. “It was as if he recognized the rosary—with its distinctive extra bead and the tiny cross.” A rush of certainty flowed through her, and she smiled. “I understand now. It was Giulia’s—she must have had one like it when he knew her. The extra bead made it special. And the cross…it was like a vis bulla. He recognized it, and it reminded him of Giulia—she was the one who gave it to me. Or, rather, the reborn, reincarnated version of herself gave it to me. She said she was born on the day Sebastian made the long promise—so it wasn’t really her, was it?”
“It was her soul,” Wayren said. “Manifested into a new person, simply waiting for the day when she could rest again.”
“And now they’re both at rest.” Macey smiled, though she still felt a horrible stab of grief when she realized Sebastian was really gone.
“Are you pouring any of that for me?” Wayren gestured to Temple. “Since you’ll be taking over as proprietor, you should get used to doing thus.”
“So now I’m to be pub-owner as well? Venator trainer, apprentice milliner, and now speakeasy proprietor? I’m going to be awfully busy.” But Temple seemed to like the idea, for she spread her hands over the smooth, battered wooden counter as if caressing it. “I could do that. For him.” She blinked rapidly, then turned to pouring for Wayren and—finally—Chas as well.
The four of them lifted their glasses at once.
Macey’s eyes filled and she blinked hard. Two farewells in two days were far too much.
But that was her life. This was the choice she made. The legacy she must fulfill. And now, she would move forward: stronger, resolved, and unencumbered by guilt and attachment.
“To Sebastian Vioget,” said Chas, lifting his drink high. His dark Gypsy eyes were damp as he stared unseeingly at the glass. “The strongest man I’ve ever known.”
EPILOGUE
~ Indigestion and an Unpleasant Incident ~
As was his habit, Al Capone had eaten far too much for dinner. Despite the sour taste left by Macey Gardella’s defection, he’d been in a celebratory mood because—hell, he’d lived through the thievery at the Art Institute, and the damned counterfeiters who took him for a million large ones were in jail.
Thus, he’d washed down multiple helpings of osso bucco, pasta, and garlic bread with carafes of Chianti. And then there’d been the cannoli…and the coffee with lots of cream. And sugar. Not to mention the cigars.
But a man hadda enjoy life—especially when he was rich as Croesus and had more than a few bullets with his name on them—and plenty of good food was paramount to living life to the fullest. After all, wasn’t that in the Church’s teachings? Man’s purpose on earth, as taught by the Catechism, was to live life to the fullest.
Al Capone couldn’t be accused of shirking his Catholic duty in that, at least. And whatever else he did that might be sinful…well, it got washed away in the confessional every week.
Nevertheless, his overly full belly made it difficult to sleep. Mae was in Cicero tonight with her sisters, so at least he had the room at the Lexington Hotel penthouse to himself. He could fart and belch
and moan from heartburn and indigestion without restraint.
Al was more comfortable without his trousers or shirt on, so he stripped down to his boxers and undershirt, leaving everything in a heap on the floor by his shoes and socks. His vis bulla was clearly outlined by the too-tight undershirt straining over his distended belly, and he looked down at the small cross-shaped bump rising over his navel with a wry smile.
Without the confidence and power given to him by the tiny amulet, he didn’t know whether he’d ever have become the man he was today: feared, respected, and filthy rich. Powerful. He suspected the tiny cross also kept his infection by syphilis at bay, for he hadn’t had an outbreak in years.
And, dammit, in exchange for such an abundant life, Al did his part for charity—more than anyone knew, in fact, but him and God. He even did his part to keep the peace in this lawless world of Prohibition. No matter what people said about his greed and illegal ways, his control over the black market liquor distribution in Chicago helped keep violent crime to a minimum, and restricted mostly to between him and his rivals. And, sure, he’d slain a few vampires over the years—hand to hand, the old-fashioned way. But that wasn’t something he felt it necessary to do anymore.
His thick brows drew together as he thought about Macey Gardella Denton. The little bitch might have won the battle, but he sure as hell wasn’t finished with the war. They were in this together, him and Macey. They had a prophecy to fulfill, and he’d find a way to make her realize she couldn’t finish her duty here—or, more importantly, the prophecy—without him as her partner.
His stomach rumbled alarmingly and Capone’s fingers slid away from his engorged torso as he closed his eyes. He knew from experience the best remedy for overindulgence was time and rest. And a nearby toilet.
He must have slept, for the pain and discomfort receded for a time…then suddenly he became aware. His eyes opened. He was facing the window, where a single beam of moonlight made its way from between gapping drapery that fluttered in the night’s breeze.
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