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

by Colleen Gleason

  Someone hooted and whistled, others cheered, and another person shouted, “The broad’s sure got some sweet gams on her!”

  “What’s Mae gonna say, Snorky? She gonna make you go to confession again?”

  Some of the crowd laughed, for Capone was known for going to confession weekly. He chuckled too, gesturing with his cigar. “Well, Mae ain’t gonna know if none of you tells her! Anyway, she knows my heart belongs to her, even though it’s nice for a little variety now and then, eh, boys?” He leered at Macey, and some of the men in the audience cheered, while a few whistled catcalls.

  Her cheeks were hot with fury, and it was all she could do to keep from shaking off the odious man’s arm and showing him—and the rest of the men—a little variety of her own.

  As if sensing her rising ire, Capone chomped on his cigar, and, with a mere look, indicated to his goons that the interviews were over. He whipped off his fedora and adjusted his white carnation boutonniere as they strode through the double doors thrown wide.

  As soon as they were inside the theater, Macey shook off his arm and rounded on Al Capone. “I am not your dame, your broad, your doll, or your anything.” She was shaking, and though she was less than a third his size, the height of her shoes put her almost nose to nose with the fiercest gangster in Chicago. She could smell the wine and garlic, as well as the expensive vetiver and sandalwood cologne, that emanated from his person. “I am here to fight the vamp—”

  “Shut up,” he snapped, his voice low and furious. A sharp gesture kept all of his handlers—and therefore the bystanders—at a distance. His fingers closed tightly around one of her wrists and he brought it down between them so she was forced closer to his body. “I know that. But you gotta role to play, and I expect you to play it. Otherwise, people will ask what you’re doing with me.”

  “I won’t pretend to be your whore,” she responded from between clenched teeth. She could see the pores in his skin, the stubble on his clean-shaven chin, a tiny clump of pomade near his temple. “I’ll walk on your arm, as your escort, but if you ever refer to me as anything more, I’ll expose you and everything else right then and there. I don’t have anything to lose, Scarface, but you sure as hell do.”

  His eyes flashed with cold, violent fury. He moved closer so she could feel the metal of his hidden revolver pressing into her hip. “Don’t you fucking threaten me, Macey Gardella. I have you in the palm of my hand—”

  “You need me. For the prophecy,” she spat. “Don’t think I don’t know that.”

  “I do—God help me—but that don’t mean I don’t have my ways of makin’ you behave. You think you can threaten me, doll, you think you can disrespect me, you got a lot to learn. I got ways of making people cooperate. And I ain’t above using ’em.”

  She glared at him, cold and furious, and yet deep inside, aware how thin the ice was on which she tread. He would do it. She knew he would. Damn him.

  Think of Dottie, and Dr. Morgan, and Grady.

  Sebastian. Chas. Temple.

  She lifted her chin and pivoted away from Capone, presenting him with her back. Still furious, she looked around the lobby of The Music Castle, which was thronged with people dressed in furs, diamonds, and other finery.

  And that was when she saw him.

  He was watching them—as was everyone else in the lobby, though most were pretending not to—from his position leaning against one of the huge potted ferns that created private alcoves in the corners of the room.

  Macey met his eyes coolly and gave a brief nod of acknowledgment. Then she accepted Capone’s arm once more.

  “Our seats are waiting,” muttered her escort. “Now behave yourself, Macey.”

  “Of course,” she murmured between stiff lips. She’d sit down, all right. She’d play the game for a few.

  And then she’d excuse herself to slip away and find out what Chas Woodmore was doing here.

  * * *

  As Grady drove past The Music Castle, he recognized Al Capone’s limousine parked at the curb. The crowds gathering on the sidewalk in front of the nightclub indicated the gangster had either just arrived or was preparing to exit his vehicle.

  Grady’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. He accelerated a little more than was strictly prudent considering the number of pedestrians about, and rumbled past the public display without slowing down. He simply couldn’t imagine Macey Denton working with that mobster, being around the bootlegger, taking part in his sordid life. It made him physically ill to imagine her as one of those gawking, shiny-eyed molls who worshipped gangsters and found their money, brutality, and power exciting.

  Surely she’d been lying.

  She’d definitely been hiding something—but what? He knew all about her secrets, he knew about the danger of vampires—though he’d never encountered one himself—and he knew about her family legacy. He knew what beauty was beneath her dress, and how she looked when she came, and the way her already wild and curly hair was even more tousled and sexy when she woke. He knew she was very smart and bold and even a little sassy.

  Well, a lot sassy.

  And brave. She must be brave, to have faced vampires more than once—Venator or no.

  But something was there in her face: something closed off. Something had changed her. And other than those few moments of hot, passionate bliss when he’d had her in his arms today—smelling her, tasting and touching her, relieved she was alive and safe… Other than when he’d first caught her off guard, Macey had been hiding something behind those incredible dark eyes of hers.

  Bugger it. He had to put her out of his mind, at least for tonight. He couldn’t afford to be distracted; he’d been waiting for this opportunity for two weeks.

  Several miles from the rowdy Music Castle, in a scrubby, run-down area near a row of warehouses, Grady parked in dark shadows to hide his automobile from streetlights and moonbeams alike. He had a small notepad tucked in his pocket, along with several pencils. He also carried a torch—they were called flashlights here in the States, something he occasionally remembered—and was well equipped with a variety of other tools and accoutrements.

  He didn’t walk on the edge of the street, instead keeping close to the shadows cast by the large, rectangular buildings and avoiding the single streetlight on this block. The sound of water rhythmically lapping nearby docks mingled with the distant roar of automobiles, honking horns, and even a possible gunshot. Or two. The area smelled rank from degrading waste and the burp of coal smoke spewing from a factory two blocks away.

  “Are you sure you want to go down there by yourself?” Linwood had asked when Grady told him of his intention earlier today. “If you’re about waitin’ till tomorrow, I’ll go with you. Two’s better in number.”

  It might have been a good idea for his uncle the cop to accompany him, but Grady was determined to go tonight. Partly because his editor wanted the story, and Grady was hoping to break it open. Besides that, he had to do something other than sit around and stew about Macey.

  And besides that, the foul streets of the poorest part of Dublin had been far worse than anything Chicago had to offer. Though he was loath to admit it, the bootlegging gangsters like Capone and his ilk did have a code, and they usually kept their violence to themselves. And, to some extent, their business enterprises helped alleviate some of the economical strain the Volstead Act had unwittingly put on the country.

  Grady had been taking care of himself since he was ten—at least when it came to mortal threats. And he had a pretty good idea how to keep the undead at bay as well, thanks to reading a good portion of The Venators. Case in point was the silver cross he had tucked into the pocket of his open coat and the stake slipped securely into his belt loop. Though vampires had no need of printed bills—real or fake—it paid to be prepared.

  The warehouse that was his target sported broken windows, their jagged glass pieces glittering with snatches of moonlight. The painted sign on one of the brick walls that had once clearly advertised Speedm
an’s Boots: the best hob-nailed toes in the business, don’t you know! was dingy and peeling, not very readable in the dark. Everything around the building was desolate and still.

  But Grady knew better.

  This building was the hub of a smart, efficient operation whereby dollar bills were being washed clean of their printing, and then reprinted as tens. It was a particularly clever setup, for one of the most difficult parts of a failsafe counterfeit operation was producing the special fiber-threaded paper on which U.S. currency was printed. These crooks had figured out a way to reuse the paper to print a higher denomination on it.

  Grady had been following the trail of these faked ten-dollar bills for almost a month, trying to find its origin. Linwood had put him on to it, knowing his journalist nephew not only liked an investigative challenge, but also that Grady—like his uncle—was one of the minority when it came to disdaining bribes and avoiding corruption.

  Grady’s patience and doggedness had paid off, for he’d managed to befriend one of the men he was certain was a key player in the counterfeit ring. Since he wasn’t the fuzz, it was much easier for him to make inroads with the group. He’d overheard a conversation between the suspected ringleader and a likely colleague—which was how Grady had come to believe something was happening at this very location tonight.

  Now, he skirted the warehouse, edging along the rough brick wall until he found a promising point of entry: a window obscured by shadow, tucked into the corner of the building, and with a huge chunk missing from the glass. The broken window was three stories off the ground, but that posed no problem.

  He removed his shoes and tied them together, then slung them around his neck, socks stuffed inside. Then he pulled on a special pair of gloves with sharp metal points at the tip of each finger. Now, barefooted, he reached as high up into the grooves between the bricks as he could. Curling his fingers tightly into the gritty cement, he began to carefully scale the wall.

  If anyone had seen him, he would look like a human fly, clinging to the side of a building and liable to tumble to the ground at any moment. But with his agile toes and strong fingers, along with the assistance of the glove’s metal tips and the deep wale between each row of brick, Grady felt quite at ease as he climbed.

  After all, he’d been doing this sort of thing since he was ten. Of course, back then it was climbing down inside a chimney to sweep it clean. Or…when the opportunity arose…to slip into a house unseen and nick some of its valuables. And he hadn’t had the fancy gloves back then either.

  When he reached the window ledge, he paused for a moment to rest, listen, and take stock. This was the most difficult part—getting through the opening in the shattered glass without cutting himself or, worse, announcing his presence by knocking shards to the ground or interior floor. He knew the warehouse wasn’t empty—during his circuit of the building, he had seen the faint glow of light deep inside.

  Despite the precariousness of his position, Grady had chosen well—for as it turned out, he didn’t have to try and climb through the jagged glass hole. He reached in, found the latch, and flipped it open—all while his toes clung to the rough edge of a brick and one hand gripped the ledge.

  Then, holding his breath, balancing carefully, he inched up the window sash, prepared for any squeal or creak that would give him away. It stuck a little, but was silent except for a very low, moan-like noise. When it was open far enough, Grady slipped through the opening.

  He landed on a dusty, dark floor and once again paused to get his bearings. He needed to find the culprits and witness them doing their business. Once he clearly saw what was going on, then he could call in some of the detectives or at least a beat cop. If he were lucky, Linwood would be available by then.

  Moving silently as a cat, he navigated through the old building, down two flights of stairs to the level where he’d seen the glow of light through a dingy window. As he drew closer, he heard the familiar rhythmic thud of a printing press, and the clatter of other mechanical tools through the walls and floor. He smiled in the darkness. Bingo.

  The lowest floor of the warehouse was open two stories high in the center, and split into sections by temporary walls. It was a vast space with a few old pallets of old crates gathering dust, a large mechanical engine, and other miscellaneous debris strewn about. The soft glow of light and the thuds of the machinery came from a far corner, obstructed by a row of bays for inventory that no longer existed. A large canvas tarpaulin gathered dust in the corner, next to a pile of splintered crates.

  Then…voices. Too close for comfort.

  Grady paused, slinking more deeply into the shadows as he strained to listen, edging along the wall to draw nearer to the conversation.

  “…tonight. Ain’t gonna risk…”

  “…all the evidence. Don’t need no fuzz sniffing…”

  “…never put a finger on us.” A laugh, then more… “Get the stuff out… Burn the place down.”

  “Right, boss.”

  Heart thudding with excitement and determination, Grady followed the conversation of the two men. Definitely the right call to come here tonight; from the sounds of it, the gang was moving on to who knew where.

  That meant Grady had to get the cops here immediately, before the thugs set fire to the place. That alone was a terrifying thought: this old warehouse, though brick inside and steel-beamed in framework, was wood everywhere else. Dry and dusty, the interior of the place and its clutter of contents would go up in smoke in a heartbeat.

  Yet he hadn’t seen anyone to identify them or even what they were actually doing. He had time…the machine was still running. Obviously they weren’t planning to move the equipment out before that print run was finished. Then they’d have to pack things up…

  He needed to see more. At least then he could act as a witness and get the story for the paper. He wished he could take a photograph, but that would illuminate his presence as well as that of the perpetrators.

  Soundless, he crept around a stack of crates, quickly and deftly making his way toward the corner of the room where the counterfeiters gathered. He heard them talking and joshing, and the definite noises of paper crinkling and heavy items being moved or stacked.

  Grady was close enough to be able to see now, and he peered around the corner of one of the flimsy temporary walls. His pulse leapt. Yes. Exactly what he had expected: a small press spitting out one bill at a time, then the bill was fed back into a different press for the other side to be printed. There were two presses going on, and two men at each press taking the bills and swapping them for the other side to be printed.

  A fifth man—the one Grady knew and believed was the ringleader—was helping a sixth member hang the bills on clotheslines to dry.

  He was just about to ease back and make his escape when he felt something behind him.

  He turned just in time to see a man, arm raised…then something struck the side of his head.

  Pain exploded and everything went dark.

  FIVE

  ~ Wherein Chas is Greatly Amused ~

  “That wasn’t the best place for a lover’s spat, was it, Macey darling?”

  She didn’t turn from where she pretended to contemplate a painted mural of jazz musician silhouettes, though the hair prickled gently—yet didn’t feel chilly—at the back of her bare neck. “Not here, Chas. Meet me at the coatroom in five minutes.”

  She continued on her way to the ladies’ lounge, aware of the number of Capone’s men who stood watchful in the lobby and along each of the entrances to the club. After attending to the sagging cerulean flower behind her ear and dabbing on a little more lip color, she pinched her cheeks and left the lounge.

  Because of the balmy April weather, and the fact that people preferred to keep their furs in their own proximity, the coatroom was deserted.

  Macey glanced around to make certain none of Capone’s men were watching her. Then, with a neat one-handed movement, she vaulted herself over the half-wall where the attendants no
rmally collected and returned coats. She landed solidly on the ground, and just as she adjusted her errant hair-flower again, she saw a shadow move in the back of the rows of empty coat racks.

  “So what brings you to The Music Castle?” she asked Chas as she edged toward one of the inner walls, out of sight of the coatroom window.

  “I heard Louis Armstrong was going to be here tonight. Thought I’d come and listen to some good jazz music.” Sarcasm rolled off his very posture.

  Though the only light was that which came from the lobby outside, she could still see Chas’s features and expression relatively well. He looked the same as always: hard, closed-off, dark and swarthy from his Gypsy heritage, and unhappy to be there. He wore a suit and coat, like most of the men present, his of charcoal gray, with an unfashionable dark shirt—likely to allow him to meld into the shadows without the white beacon of a cotton button-down to give him away. His hair—thick, wavy, and too long—was completely out of date. He looked as if he belonged to an utterly different era. He sometimes spoke that way too.

  “I’m promised it’ll be a good show,” she replied. Then, dropping all pretense, Macey continued, “How is Sebastian?”

  “Sebastian? Ah, then you do care—at least about his welfare. He’s slick and sly and impatient as ever, lulu. Oh, and he can’t go about in the sunlight, you know. Poor fop.”

  “Now, Chas,” she said, her voice dropping a little. “Jealousy doesn’t become you. Of course I care about your welfare as well as Sebastian’s, and Temple’s too, of course—but the last time I saw him he barely escaped poofing in the sun.”

  “And that was, what…five months ago? Last fall, was it? Apparently your concern didn’t extend to proactive communication—now that you’re Big Al’s sidepiece,” Chas replied coolly. “What’s it like, living in the lap of luxury, on the dime of the most evil man in Chicago—that is, besides Nicholas Iscariot—while the undead roam like feral rats in the underground and the rest of us try to keep them at bay?”