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

by Colleen Gleason

  She caught herself just in time; her hand had jerked, ready to fly up and connect with his sharp-boned cheek, and she only barely kept it at her side. Chas met her eyes, challenge and knowledge in his gaze. “Good decision, Macey. Save your tantrums for Snorky. You were having a ripe one, too, from the looks of your little display in the lobby back there.”

  She drew in a deep breath, and with effort forced the fury to ebb from her body. Chas had a right to be angry, to question her. He didn’t have to be such an ass about it, but she couldn’t deny he had cause. And just because she was feeling a little thin-skinned tonight…

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Sorry for precisely what?”

  She pursed her lips. “All right. I deserve that, I suppose, to some extent—”

  “You sure as the devil do deserve that—and more. Look, Macey, the last time I saw you, we’d just battled our way out of a den of vampires and you got forced into a long black car—and I was detained from joining you. I hear from Sebastian that he nearly died and lost the Rings of Jubai to Al Capone…and then he tells me you’re staying with him? With that bastard? What in the hell is going on—”

  “Keep your voice down. He’s got people everywhere—which is why I haven’t been able to be in contact with you or Sebastian or anyone. Capone’s kept me under house arrest for months now, and in case you couldn’t tell, I was damned happy to see you here.”

  At last Chas relaxed a little. “As a matter of fact, I could. I could’ve sworn you looked like you were going to faint with relief when you looked over and noticed me.”

  She breathed a little sigh of relief. That was Chas. Furious and black-hearted one minute, ready to crack a wry joke the next. “Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t need to be saved. But I do need to talk to you—”

  “So talk. Let’s get down to business. What are you doing for Capone, lulu?”

  “He wants me to be his bodyguard, his—well, his personal Venator. Mainly, he wants me around. Because he believes one of Rosamunde Gardella’s prophecies refers to me…and him.”

  Chas’s eyes narrowed. “One of Rosamunde’s prophecies…about you and him? Why the bloody hell would he think that? And how would he even know about the prophecies?”

  Macey stilled. “I guess you don’t know. He’s a Venator.”

  Her companion froze then his eyes widened and he began to laugh. Loudly, derisively, uproariously. His body shook and he leaned his shoulder against the wall as if needing to be held upright.

  Good grief. When the dark pain and anguish that always lingered in his countenance evaporated and turned into reckless humor instead, Chas became unbelievably handsome. Impossibly good-looking—so much so that Macey’s knees felt a little weak with the rest of her being in close quarters with such a gorgeous specimen of manhood.

  A powerful, mysterious, gorgeous specimen of manhood.

  “Keep it down,” she said again, putting a little space between herself and this suddenly godlike being. He was being an ass again—which helped.

  Why would a man who looked like Chas Woodmore be so lonely? So empty? Surely it wouldn’t be difficult for him to find companionship, and perhaps even love. Of course, there was that underlying derision and anger he always seemed to possess.

  Chas brought himself under control, but the hard light of humor still glinted in his eyes. “So Al Capone told you he’s a Venator, and you believed him?” He started chuckling again, derision lighting his expression. “What a fool—”

  That did it. This time, she didn’t hold back. It wasn’t her hand that came up to slap him in the face, it was her elbow and forearm that swung up and around sharply, catching him in the diaphragm hard enough to cut off his air—and to fully get the bastard’s attention.

  He grunted and jolted backward, his hand going to his bent torso as he tried to catch his breath.

  “I saw his vis bulla,” she snapped.

  “I’ll…bet…you…did,” he wheezed. This earned him another blow, but Chas managed to catch her fist with his open palm. His fingers curled around hers and tightened in warning as he straightened. “I’m happy to scrap with you, Macey darling, but we might do a little too much damage in this small space. Then how would we explain it to your new boss?” His voice quivered with humor, then steadied. “Besides that—it’s the undead we need to be showing our strength to.”

  She yanked her hand away. “His name is in the Gardella Bible. Go look it up. Alphonsus.”

  “Fuck.” Chas stepped back, shock and disbelief replacing levity in his expression. “Is it true?”

  “Unfortunately, I have no reason not to believe him—except for the fact that he’s a greedy, brutal bastard who is using his abilities for the wrong reasons. In other words, I wish I could disbelieve him.”

  “Fuck,” he said again. Then his lips twisted, turning them from sensual to flat and ugly. “Vioget must know. The bastard,” he muttered. “I knew he was keeping something from me. Hell, that’s probably not the only damn thing.” His gaze flashed, and Macey realized if Sebastian was there, she would be treated to one hell of a brawl—destruction of the coatroom notwithstanding.

  “You can fantasize about stabbing him with a stake later, Chas. We need to figure out a way to communicate once I leave here. I’m not certain how much freedom I’m going to have, and I…”

  She stilled, and both of them turned at the same time. An ugly, insidious, eerie chill settled over the back of her neck—the prickling that announced the presence of the undead.

  “Time to get to work.” Chas shifted and a stake slipped into his hand from up a sleeve.

  “Capone will feel it too. I’d better get back to him first.”

  “You do what you have to do,” he said, much too politely. “By all means. Take care of your boss. I’m going to dust some undead before they do any damage of their own.”

  “If I don’t see you again tonight—”

  But he was already gone before she could tell him where and how to communicate with her in the future. Jerk. Macey shook her head and hurried out of the coatroom.

  Though she and Chas were both aware of the mortal danger the presence of vampires portended, the other attendees at The Music Castle had no idea their lives were in jeopardy. When Macey came out of the coatroom and returned to the lobby, everything was as it had been before: gangsters standing about watching for trouble they had no concept how to combat and probably wouldn’t recognize anyway, a few knots of people chatting. As if to punctuate the easy mood, beyond the two sets of double doors that led to the club itself crooned the jumpy, happy beat of a jazzy clarinet.

  “Miz Macey,” said one of the bodyguards as he opened the door to the club for her.

  As she stepped over the threshold and into the hall swelling with music as well as spectators, Macey felt as if she’d moved into another world. It was a full-sense experience, being surrounded by this bold, new style of music, particularly as it was being performed by one of the most talented musicians in the country. With its low, blue and purple lighting fringing the edges of the room and dangling from random lamps, and the round tables packed close to each other and the stage, Capone’s club immediately felt close and intimate. Add to that the low, gravelly voice of Mr. Armstrong as he sang something about a kiss to build a dream on, and the smooth accompaniment of piano, trombone, and clarinet, and the experience was stunningly sensual.

  The pungency of cigarette and cigar smoke wafted through the air, weaving through the scents of lemon or peppermint pomade and floral colognes. Silhouettes of short-haired women, their nape-baring tresses topped by feathered bands or studded with glittering combs, displayed elegant necks and delicate shoulders bared by sleeveless shifts or slipping necklines. Gems glittered like random stars, picking up the cool lights as hands, wrists, and throats moved. The men sitting next to them sported their own diamond-studded rings, as well as shiny, slicked-back hair that seemed be frosted by moonlight when the lights from onstage filtered over the crowd
.

  Macey felt the beat of the music filling her, mingling with the heartbeat deep inside her chest, and she was reminded of a similar sensation when she’d first encountered the undead. When a vampire would focus his or her glowing red eyes on her, luring her into a thrall, their breaths mingled, and her heartbeat seemed to pound along with that of her adversary. The music took hold of her like that, for Macey had never before had occasion to hear such talent, such perfectly sensual music performed by such a master musician.

  But hers was only a short lapse into the sensations of the moment, for that eerie, forbidding chill still burned into the back of her own bare neck.

  Macey had hesitated just inside the door, but as Mr. Armstrong finished his song and the audience erupted into enthusiastic applause, cheers, and whistles, she made her way quickly to the table where she’d left Capone.

  Not front and center of the stage, but at the right corner, directly adjacent to the musicians. As she approached, Satchmo was still bowing and accepting his adulations, but then he picked up his coronet and began to tap out the countdown for his Hot Five to swing into the next song. She recognized “Gut Bucket Blues.”

  “Where da hella you been?” Capone’s fingers were tight around Macey’s wrist as she came up next to him, before she even slid onto the edge of her chair. “You got things under control?”

  She didn’t bother to respond to his first question, but she did pull her arm away with a sharp twist. “I will,” she said, using the opportunity to turn back and scan the audience from her front-row vantage point. Now where was that chill coming from…? “I just came back to make certain—”

  Her eyes lit on a table in the back. The cold, prickly chill suddenly became overwhelming, rushing through her body as if she’d been plunged into the lake on a gray day.

  Oh no.

  She ignored Capone’s hissed demand as she rose from his side and woodenly, blank-mindedly began to make her way back up and around the audience.

  No.

  It can’t be.

  But why wouldn’t it be?

  She made her way toward the group of men and women. Their round table was tucked back into a dark corner, as if to leave them to their privacy, where any sort of shenanigans could happen unseen by anyone else in the club. As if to allow its occupants to watch over the crowd as well as the musicians. As if to allow each of them ample opportunity to carefully choose and hunt his or her own prey.

  And in the center of the table sat a tall, gangly redheaded woman, no older than Macey.

  Flora. Once her best friend and closest confidante.

  Now, an immortal undead.

  SIX

  ~ The Dark Pangs of Regret ~

  Macey gripped her stake, aware that her stomach was fluttering uncomfortably. Her palms were damp, and she drew in a deep breath.

  It was Flora. Her friend…and now an immortal half-demon.

  Someone she was bound to kill.

  Every time she thought about it, Macey felt like throwing up.

  Nevertheless, she approached the table of undead exuding confidence. At least, she was fairly certain everyone around the table was a vampire—but it was hard to tell for certain with so many of them sitting there. There might have been a mortal or two in the group of six.

  One thing was certain: the back of her neck felt as if a brick of ice had lodged there, and the eeriness of the sensation crept into her belly.

  Or maybe that was simply because she was going to have to destroy her best friend.

  She adjusted her hold on the stake, hiding it among the loose folds of her flimsy evening jacket as she walked up behind one of the men at the table. He sat two people over from her friend.

  “Hello, Flora.”

  When she turned toward the greeting, Flora didn’t appear surprised. “Hello, Macey. What a pleasant surprise.” Her words were neither blatantly false, nor falsely polite. Her eyes looked normal, and there wasn’t a fang in sight.

  Macey had a moment—just a moment—to wonder if she was wrong. If somehow she’d been fooled or tricked, and that Flora was still Flora: funny, cheerful, gawky, and loud. But the moment of crazy hope was fleeting. She knew better.

  “I’m going to have to ask you and your friends to leave. Immediately,” Macey said, her hand resting on the back of the chair in front of her.

  “We’re not going to be leaving,” replied one of the others at the table—a short, dark-skinned woman with a jeweled red comb holding the hair out of her face. “We like the jazzzzz.” She smiled, drawing out the last word, but there was no warmth in her grin. A flicker of red showed in her eyes for a moment, tugging at Macey’s belly, but Macey was easily able to pull her gaze away.

  The occupant of the chair she was holding twisted lazily in his seat, looking up and around at her. “Don’t be a bore,” he drawled. “Have a seat here, doll.” He patted his lap as he made his gaze hot and red and inviting, pulling at her as if he’d slung a rope around her waist. “Don’t be shy. I don’t bite.” He laughed, but the sound was absorbed by the music filling the air. His hand closed over hers, which still rested on the back of his chair. “Come on now, doll. Give me a warmup.” His grip was uncomfortably tight.

  “No thanks.” Macey moved with a quick, spare gesture, plunging her stake down over the shoulder angled toward her, right into his heart. Poof. The vampire exploded into soft, vile-smelling ash as the rest of the table looked at her in shock and surprise, their eyes wide and red. “I told you to leave. I’d prefer not to make a scene, but I will if you don’t heed my warning.”

  “All right.” Flora stood suddenly and began to make her way around the table toward her. Her hands were raised as if to ward off her former friend from launching another attack. “All right. We’re going.” She glanced out into the club, then turned back to the table of the people Macey assumed were Flora’s new friends.

  None of them were familiar to Macey, and at first blush, they all seemed to be relatively young and inexperienced vampires—at least compared to the likes of the dusted Count Alvisi, and the terrifying Nicholas Iscariot.

  “Let’s go. She’ll just ruin the evening if we stay,” Flora was saying.

  “Who the hell is she?” one of them muttered as the five remaining vampires pulled to their feet.

  “Hurry,” Flora muttered, pushing at one of her companions.

  Macey looked over and saw Chas working his way through the tables. Flora had been looking in that direction—was that the reason she’d capitulated so easily? He had been with Macey when they first encountered Flora as an undead—when Macey had attempted to slay the ginger-haired girl and hadn’t succeeded.

  Had Flora seen that Macey wasn’t alone, and realized she and her friends would be no match for two or more Venators?

  No one else in the audience had seemed to notice the slaying of a vampire in their midst, but if a full-out brawl occurred, they certainly would. If a fight erupted, everyone who carried a revolver—which meant ninety percent of the men in here, and probably a surprisingly high number of the women—would pull out the weapon and start shooting. They’d have no idea at what or whom they were shooting—or that vampires were impervious to bullets—and who knew how many people would be caught in the crossfire.

  The trigger fingers of gangsters, she’d come to realize, were very touchy.

  Whatever the reason, Macey was content with letting the undead simply file their way out of the club without doing any damage to anyone—except the man she’d already staked. She brushed off the ash that clung to her beaded clothing, and realized it would probably adhere to the nooks and crannies forever. Unless she wanted to smell like dusted undead, she wouldn’t be able to wear this jacket again.

  She paused to determine whether the chill at the back of her neck had abated, and noticed Chas—who’d been making his way toward her—had veered to the right and was circling the audience again.

  And since the back of her neck remained uncomfortably cold, Macey knew there was still
work to be done. Brushing a clump of ash from the edge of the table, she turned and made her way toward the doors that led to the lobby. Chas could handle everything in here for now and she would make certain no one was lurking elsewhere.

  She blinked rapidly at the bright lights that accosted her as she left the close, smoky, coolly lit hall. The eerie prickling led her to the right, toward the side doors that opened into the backstage area of the center, and she picked up her pace. The chill became stronger and more insistent.

  Just as she came around the corner that led to the backstage doors, someone grabbed her arm. Macey spun, stake raised, and found herself face to face with Flora.

  Her friend’s eyes widened and she stepped back, hands up and palms out once more. “Don’t!”

  Macey halted, breathing heavily, the stake quivering in her hand.

  “Please,” Flora said. “Please, don’t. Just…let me talk to you first. And then…” She bit her lip and stopped, waiting.

  Macey lowered the stake, eyeing her friend cautiously.

  Flora was still tall and loose-limbed, with carroty-red hair and freckles everywhere from her pug nose to her shoulders to her legs. She’d always been fair-skinned, but now she appeared even more washed out except for the freckles—which stood out even more on her dead-white skin—and her lips had faded to a pale melon color.

  “What do you want to say?” Macey kept her voice cold. She had to keep reminding herself this wasn’t Flora anymore. This wasn’t her friend.

  She prepared herself for anything—for the woman to lunge at her, fangs flashing, for her to sneer and challenge and threaten as she’d done before, or even for Flora to accuse her—to accuse Macey of leading her to this position, of causing her to be turned undead. But she was shocked when her friend’s light blue eyes filled with tears and she folded her arms into her chest, hands gripping her own shoulders as if to hug herself.

  “Help me,” she whispered. “Please. Macey, can you help me?” She looked at her, eyes watery and blue—not a hint of a red glow or malice anywhere.