Roaring Shadows: Macey Book 2 (The Gardella Vampire Hunters 8)

by Colleen Gleason

  A sound caught her attention and she turned toward the apartment door, listening. The scuttle of a mouse? Some other critter who’d taken up residence in the abandoned house?

  There it was again…the faintest scuffle.

  Macey rose, looking around for a weapon. Not a stake; it was broad, sunny daylight, so she didn’t expect a vampire. She wasn’t afraid of anything or anyone else, except a bullet, and even then—

  The door to her apartment swung open silently and there he stood.

  Grady.

  FOUR

  ~ In Which Mr. Capone Receives a Set-Down ~

  “What are you doing here?”

  Grady didn’t respond other than to stare at her—almost as if he were seeing a ghost.

  Macey couldn’t look away either. Seeing his name in print was a poor substitute for looking upon the man himself. At first glance, he hadn’t changed—not a surprise. It had only been five months since they'd parted in front of the Tribune building. He still wore his thick, velvet-brown hair cut in a fashionable style—short around the ears and neck, longer on top so it dipped and waved over his temples and occasionally fell into his brows. He was dressed in a white shirt, tie, and brown coat with dark trousers and spats. His fingers, curling into themselves and the brim of his fedora, were ink-stained.

  But as he stood in the doorway, it was his eyes that caught and held her attention. Those blue eyes, today stormy and dark like Lake Michigan on a winter’s morning, were filled with relief and confusion. And something else—anger? Disappointment?

  “Macey,” he said at last. “I’m so damned glad to see you. I’m so glad you’re all right.”

  Still clutching her handkerchief, Macey stuffed the two parts of her parents’ picture into her pocketbook. “What are you doing here?” she asked again. Her heart thudded hard and she fought to keep her expression empty.

  “You haven’t been home for months.” His voice was tinged with anger. “And you ask me what I’m doing here?”

  Then she understood. “You’ve been watching my—this apartment?”

  He nodded, stepping into the room. The door swung closed behind him. “I figured you had to come home some time. Mr. Talbot—the bloke next door—he was happy to keep an eye out for you if you came back. He called me. Fortunately, I was in the office and could come right away.”

  “Why?” It took all she had to keep her voice even and disinterested.

  “Why?” He stepped closer, his eyes glittering as he tossed his hat onto the bed. “How can you be asking me that? After what you went through, after what happened here, and to you, after what we—Jesus, Macey, we were—we slept together. We made love. You—we—” He shook his head as if to clear it. “After all of it, you climb into a gangster’s limousine and disappear for five months and you’re asking me why I am here? Why I’ve been desperate to see you?”

  She didn’t move quickly enough, and he was there, his hands gripping her shoulders, his face so close to hers she could see the beginning of stubble on his chin. “Do you really not know? Do you really think I wouldn’t care?” The flavor of Ireland thickened his voice as his fingers—warm, strong—burned into her skin through the thin cotton of her blouse.

  Macey struggled to keep her breathing steady and her expression unmoved. Her pulse pounded in her throat, and she hoped he couldn’t see it. Grady was close…so close. He smelled like pine, fresh, and like damp worsted wool, and ink, and something else…something evocative and familiar. Something that made her insides slide deliciously.

  “Macey,” he said, his voice gentling as he probed her with his gaze and stepped closer. Now she could feel the crease of his trousers brushing against the hem of her skirt, his shoe nudging hers. “Say something, lass.”

  “I…” Her voice dried up, and before she could try again, he bent his head.

  Grady’s lips were full and warm, fitting tenderly over hers in a soft caress.

  Oh.

  Her eyes sank closed and her hands landed on his broad, strong chest. Warmth and the thud of his heartbeat seeped into her palms. He angled his mouth, tasting her more deeply as she opened to him, her body leaning into his long, muscular one. Slick and smooth, their tongues and lips tangled together as all thoughts, all hesitations evaporated from her mind. Pleasure surged through her—gentle, hot licks filling her from chest to belly and lower. Oh, oh, yes.

  She forgot where she was, what she was, and sank into this man…this familiar man, with his knowledgeable touch and sensual mouth and stormy, demanding eyes. She felt hot and sleek and alive, and…

  Yes. She felt. She could still feel. She wasn’t dead, wasn’t as empty as she’d feared. She wasn’t her father, cold and unfeeling.

  The thought of Max Denton was like a bucket of ice water dumped over her head, and Macey stilled, then pulled away. Grady released her and she stepped back, refusing to allow herself to pant even though she was out of breath from the rush of pleasure.

  He stared at her from the distance she put between them, his lips full and damp, his eyes dark with heat and wariness. His cheeks were ruddy with desire, his tie askew from her hands.

  “That’s enough,” were the only words she could pull from the whirlwind of her mind, from the wants and needs and warnings fighting within her. Damned if her hands weren’t trembling a little as she held them up to stave him off. She lowered them, her breathing under control, her flushed cheeks cooling.

  Grady eyed her as if she were some sort of feral animal. “All right, then, lass. No more kissing…for now,” he added, his voice hitching a little. “Why don’t we go and grab a cup of coffee, and you can tell me about where you’ve been, what you’ve been doing all these months.”

  “No.” The word was flat and hard and angry. She had to make herself feel anger and determination. And nothing else. She could allow herself to feel nothing.

  Grady’s attention had fallen on the mutilated photograph on her bureau, and he picked it up. “Who’s this?” He flattened the picture, then looked up at her.

  “My parents.”

  “Your parents.”

  “On their honeymoon,” Macey felt compelled to add. “My mother was killed a few years later by the vampires. Brutally. It destroyed my father. I hadn’t seen him since then. He died in the War.”

  “I’m sorry.” Grady looked as if he were about to say something else, but Macey didn’t want to talk about her parents, and she certainly didn’t want to talk to him any more. The longer she was with him, the more difficult it was to remember what she had to do.

  She took the photo from him. “Look, it’s been nice chatting with you, but I’m leaving. I just came to—to get something,” she said, suddenly remembering that that was why she’d come. To find that rosary the old woman had given her. “And then I’m leaving. And I won’t be back. And I won’t be…seeing you anymore. All right? So there’s no reason for you to keep watching this place.”

  “Why? Dammit, tell me why, Macey. At least tell me what changed—why you practically leapt from my bed, and then disappeared. Is it him? Are you with him now? Is that why? Or is it something else? You forget, I know your secret. So it can’t be that.”

  “Yes, I’m with him. I’m working for Al Capone.” She knew as she said it what effect it would have on Grady, who loathed the gangsters, who hated how they skirted the law and acted like celebrities, and enjoyed the adulation poured upon them by the people of Chicago. Not to mention the violence and control they commanded. She knew it would effectively end the possibility of anything between them, ever.

  And she must use it to drive a wedge between them.

  “Capone?” Confusion knotted his expression. “You’re with Capone?” He grimaced. “I knew Woodmore was a gangster. He brought you there, didn’t he?”

  “Chas?” Macey didn’t know why it took her so long to catch up—maybe it was the residual effect of that hot, sexy kiss—but when she did, she shook her head violently. “No, I’m not with Chas Woodmore. He’s not—he’s
not part of that. He’s not a gangster, I told you that before. He’s a—”

  “Vampire hunter. So you said. And you’re a vampire hunter as well. Don’t forget—I read the book about your family. The Venators. Which brings me to—what the hell are you doing with the likes of Al Capone?” His voice was filled with loathing, and yet there was a thread of pleading woven in there. Of course he didn’t want to believe Macey would ally herself with the gangsters. But it was imperative he did.

  “I work for him. Personal bodyguard.” She forced herself to sound blithe, to keep her voice steady and cool. “The paycheck is better than anything I could get anywhere else—you can’t imagine the style he keeps me in. Being a Venator isn’t a paying job, you know.”

  Grady blanched. His eyes never left her, and now they narrowed in anger and disgust. “I don’t believe you. Correction: I don’t want to believe you.”

  Excellent. Almost there. She gave the wedge one last blow. “You’re such an idealist, Grady.” Her laugh sounded appropriately derisive. “I’ve moved up in the world—simple as that. And I’ve left behind this rathole of a place, secondhand and over-made clothes, and scrimping for my next pair of shoes.”

  He stared at her for a long moment, and it was all she could do to keep her expression haughty and matter-of-fact. Her knees trembled, and her insides roiled, but he couldn’t know that.

  “I’ve never been so disappointed in anyone in my life,” he said at last. His voice was so quiet, yet the words roared incredibly loud, filling her ears. And then they settled inside her like a heavy kettledrum.

  His face grim, he turned to leave. “Be safe, lass. And if you ever need anything…you know where to find me.” He was out the door before she could say another word.

  She managed to hold back the tears, to keep herself from collapsing into the chair, shaking, until she heard him leave through the front door below. Only then did she peer out the window from behind the curtains to watch him drive away.

  No, he wasn’t driving away. She’d driven him away.

  Now he’ll be safe.

  Please keep him safe.

  * * *

  The special corset Capone had had made for Macey was horribly uncomfortable. Heavy, hard, and restrictive of movement. Supposedly, it was bulletproof.

  She put it on then almost immediately took it off. “I’m not going to wear that,” she told herself in the mirror. If anything went wrong, how the hell was she going to do anything about it if she couldn’t move?

  I’ll just have to take my chances.

  She had to admit, however, the blue-silver dress was gorgeous. Capone was a natty dresser, and he clearly knew how to pick women’s clothes as well as his own.

  The frock was made from a gossamer steel-blue fabric that hung long, loose, and lean from shoulder to just above the knee. There were no sleeves, and the neckline was a long, narrow vee that ended at the bottom of her breastbone. At the top of each shoulder, the fabric was gathered into elegant pleats and moored by palm-sized dark blue flowers. Each was trimmed with crystals and jet beads. Silver, blue, white, and clear beads glittered in a fleur-de-lis pattern over the entire dress, and with every movement it rippled and shone like moonlight over water.

  Beneath the dress, Macey wore a silvery shift of watered silk with a low scoop neck that showed the tops of her breasts, which she’d confined by a lace-trimmed side-tying corset that allowed freedom of movement, and, more importantly, the ability to draw in a full breath as well as bend and twist. The evening jacket Capone had chosen for the ensemble was made from sheer midnight-blue material also embroidered with beading: black, cobalt, and midnight. Its sleeves were long and wide, resembling those of a kimono, and the jacket, which hung open like a robe, fell in points past her knees.

  Macey pinned a cerulean-blue flower in her short, ink-black curls, tucking it just above and behind her left ear. She tucked a filigree silver cross on a chain beneath her clothing, preferring the element of surprise to a badge of identification. Sparkling blue crystal earrings and a wide sapphire cuff—with real gemstones—as well as long dove-gray gloves completed the accessories sent by her employer.

  Her stockings were sheer, shot with silver threads, and ended above her knees, where they were held in place by black garters. A flash of them would be revealed every time her skirt rode up upon sitting or climbing into a vehicle. Into one of the black straps she slipped a special stake. It was the shape of a flattened oval, similar to a drafting pencil, and about the width of her two fingers. Its point was long and sharp. Into the other garter, she slid a knife in its sheath. There was also a small opening in the side of her frock that looked like a pocket, but was just a circular hole made from thread through which she could hang a stake. With the dress being loose, it wouldn’t ruin the way it hung.

  And then there was her pocketbook—long and shallow. Perfect for a stake, her lip color, a few bucks, and a tiny derringer.

  She had just slipped on dark blue shoes—lower heels than fashion generally dictated for obvious reasons, and decorated with sparkling pink flowers over each foot’s arch—when a knock came at the door.

  Seven o’clock. Right on time.

  Macey had met Gus before—he was the one who’d driven her to Cicero, and the other few times she’d been transported somewhere at Capone’s whim. Neither of them felt the need to speak as he gestured for her to precede him into the elevator, but she was fully aware of his appreciative look sweeping her from head to toe. She filed that away for potential future interest and swept into the elevator.

  “You look stunning,” said Capone when Macey walked across the Lexington’s lobby to meet him. He took her arm, leaning close enough to mutter for her ears only, “And little do all da boys know, you’re deadly in more than looks, ain’t ya, doll?”

  “Da boys” were stationed around the lobby and in the alley Capone used for entrance and exit, because it could be closed off on either end for protection. Each of the dark-suited men were armed, a fact which was obvious by the bulges beneath their suits, the way they stood, and, in some cases, the firearms poking boldly from between shirt and waistband.

  One of them opened the door to a sleek black limousine, flanked in front and behind by two other vehicles.

  “I didn’t wear the corset,” she said as she settled into the seat across from Big Al. “I couldn’t move in it.”

  Capone looked as if he wanted to retort—he did not like to be naysaid—but then pursed his lips. “Suppose I best look at changing that then. Yain’t no good to me if ya can’t strike out when necessary.”

  Macey hadn’t been inside Capone’s personal limousine before, and she looked around at its luxury. The engine purred as the vehicle slid away from the curb, and her employer noticed.

  “Ya don’t need to worry when you’re in my car,” he said—as if the thought had crossed her mind. But maybe it should have, for as he had pointed out previously, Capone had been the target of assassination attempts by competitors multiple times over the last year. “It’s got reinforced doors, and the glass is so thick no damn bullet’s gonna pass through it. Cost me twenty grand, and General Motors made it specially for me—one of a kind. I even had ’em put special combination locks on the doors so no one’s gonna be able to slip a bomb inside for me. And Johnny and the others are in front and behind us—we’ll get to the Castle safely, don’t you worry, doll.”

  “What do you want me to do tonight?”

  He seemed neither surprised nor irked by her demand. “Watch. And do whatever has to be done,” he said with an impatient flap of his hand. “But make it quiet. Don’t be disrupting the damned show, you got it?”

  “Are you expecting undead to be there? How on earth would they get past your boys?”

  “I prepare for the unexpected, so what I expect is irrelevant. I’m hosting Satchmo tonight, sweets—the last thing I wanna be doin’ is worrying about whether there’s an undead lurking about. That’s your job. You got that?”

  “I got
that.” Macey settled back in her seat and realized for the first time how incredibly quiet the vehicle ran, and how she didn’t feel even the slightest bump on the road. As the sights of Chicago rolled by, she smoothed the skirt over her thighs and adjusted the flower in her hair, watching the street and business names to orient herself to their location.

  “Damn, you got some nice legs there, doll,” said Al. His voice was as objective as if he was talking about the taste of coffee. “You got a whole ’nother set of assets than my boys an’ their guns. Use them wisely.”

  Macey saw no reason to respond, and soon the limousine purred to a halt in front of The Music Castle. Lights shone everywhere: from streetlights studding the sidewalk, to the colored marquee of the club’s name, to a trio of spotlights that circled and dodged like manic fireflies around the entrance to the venue. Al Capone Welcomes Louis Armstrong, announced the sign, punctuated by a frame of gold light bulbs that looked like a moving rectangle. People gathered in front of the theater, but eight burly, ferocious-looking men were arranged to keep the bystanders at a safe distance from the new arrivals.

  Macey followed her boss out of the limo, and she felt as if she were being physically pelted by flashes of camera bulbs. One of his goons helped her slide from the low vehicle, then Capone offered her his arm. Instead of escorting her inside, however, he paused to greet the crowd thronging the sidewalk.

  She stood there, the sultry April breeze ruffling the hem of her frock and tousling her curls as Big Al held court with his admirers. Jovial and expansive as usual when greeting the public, he answered some questions from bystanders, made a few jokes, and accepted the offer of a light for his cigar from one of his bodyguards.

  “Hey, Snorky! Who’s the dame?” asked someone whose face was obscured by the bright spotlights and the continuing flashes from photographers.

  “This here’s my escort for the night,” Al replied, tightening his grip on Macey’s arm, as if expecting her to flee. “Don’t she got a nice look to her?”