“What happened back there?” she was compelled to ask as her companion handed over a wet cloth.
Temple met her eyes in the mirror. “You walked in smelling of fresh blood.”
Macey shook her head as she scrubbed at the blood, which had begun to dry in places and was sticky in others. It stained her clothing, and between that and the undead ash caught up inside the beading and lace, this outfit was definitely going in the trash. “That seemed an awfully strong reaction for someone who’s managed not to feed for more than a hundred years. Surely Sebastian doesn’t react that way every time he encounters fresh blood on a human.” She knew he kept a stash of fresh cow’s blood procured from the stockyards for his sustenance.
“Geez, sister, you don’t get it, do you? I said you walked in covered with fresh blood. It ain’t anyone else would have that affect on Sebastian Vioget but you, Macey Gardella Denton.”
She felt the blood drain from her face, then whoosh back up again, hot and fiery. “Oh.”
Temple didn’t seem angry as much as intent on making Macey understand. “You are the spitting image of Victoria Gardella, but with the eyes of Giulia Pesaro—a perfect combination of the two women he loved. The two women he’s sacrificed everything for—including his soul. It was because of them he allowed himself to be turned undead.”
Now she felt cold and unsteady. Nauseated. Chas had said something similar to her once… I warn you—don’t allow Vioget to see you bloody like that. He’d be on you in a heartbeat. The blood, and the fact that you’re the spitting image of your great-great-grandmother.
“Right,” Macey managed to say around the lump in her throat. The problem was, the heat in Sebastian’s eyes hadn’t been as frightening as it had been alluring. She still tingled a little, still felt the titillation of need…
Or maybe it was simply because she’d been lonely, separated, and angry for months. Because she’d finally learned what it truly meant to be a Venator: no attachments.
An image of Grady, his expression shocked and repulsed as it had been earlier today, floated in her mind. Macey ruthlessly pushed it away.
Temple thrust a wad of clothing at her. “Here. It’s probably a little long for you and’ll be tight over the tits, but it’s better than what you’re wearing. Smells like vampire and blood. Which means you must have a story, now that you’ve decided to grace us with your presence again.”
Before Macey could reply, Temple continued, “About Sebastian…look, sister, I’m worried about him. And you know me—I don’t worry too much about anyone. But lately, Sebastian’s been—”
The door opened. “He’s a bloody damned mess—no pun intended.”
“Lordy, Chas,” Temple snapped, partly in surprise, partly in irritation. “Macey’s in her altogethers and here you are, busting in for a peek.”
“Though it wasn’t my intent to peek,” he said, crowding into the small chamber with them both and bringing the scents of smoke, undead ash, and damp wool, “one can’t be looking a gift horse in the mouth—or so they say.”
Macey, whose cheeks had flushed hot yet again, had been in the act of finding the head and armholes of the new frock Temple had given her, and stood there in no more than her side-lacing brassiere, which covered her from breast to thigh, and briefs.
She spun around with a huff, partly to hide her cheeks as much as the rest of her, and scrabbled through the flimsy material of the dress to find the opening. “Go away, Chas.”
“Not a chance. You and I have some talking to do, lulu.”
She yanked the frock over her head and, locating the holes for her arms, turned back as the fabric fluttered down over her torso. It was tight around the bust, and would have been tighter if she hadn’t been wearing the side-lacer, which flattened her a little.
“Thanks, Temple,” she said, turning back and ignoring the new arrival. “I didn’t think about there being blood on me. I’ll be more careful next time.” Surprisingly, the pretty blue flower was still attached to her hair, out of place but still clinging to a few strands. She leaned toward the mirror to adjust it.
“That assumes there will be a next time,” Chas said. “Temple, you’d best go see to Vioget.” He gestured to the door.
The woman glowered at him. She was as tall as Chas, and her café-au-lait arms and legs were slender but shaped with smooth, lean muscles—unlike Flora’s, whose freckled white limbs were merely thin and gangly…yet that much more powerful. Temple appeared ready to argue, but there must have been something in Chas’s expression that caused her to fold, for though she gave him a sharp, displeased look, she reached for the doorknob.
“Better me than you, I suppose,” Temple muttered, and left in a swish of understated fury.
Macey took a step to follow her, but Chas moved neatly to block the way. “Why in such a hurry to escape? Are you afraid I’m going to want to finish our little scrap in the coatroom? You seemed raring to pummel me before.” His eyes lit with danger and challenge.
She gritted her teeth. “What do you want, Chas?”
“We didn’t finish our conversation.”
“I don’t know what more there is to tell you. I am committed to working with Al Capone, and—”
“Yet here you are, somehow having slipped the noose—so to speak—so very easily after claiming your inability to do so for five bloody months. One can only assume you misjudged the ease with which you could escape Capone’s influence.”
Grady’s face wavered in her mind, followed by the threatening, determined countenance of Al Capone. She might be smarter than he was, but he had Tommy guns and goons and contacts everywhere.
“I have to go back. I can’t stay.”
“Jesus, Macey, are you a Venator or are you a bloody damned girl? Don’t tell me you’re afraid of Al Capone, Venator or not!”
“It’s not me I’m afraid for, you jackass!” Macey was so furious, tears stung her eyes—which made her even more angry.
“Well it’s sure as hell not me or Vioget you’re protecting, so who the—oh. Jesus Christ. The Irish bastard, is it? You went and fell for the damned mick, didn’t you? Jesus, Macey! And as a result, Capone’s got his own little Venator bitch all decked out and collared up, ready to do whatever he says.”
Red tinged her vision and Macey grabbed him by the front of his coat. She whipped him to the side, slamming his broad-shouldered body into the corner as hard as she could. He crashed against the wooden wall, and it splintered a little beneath the force, but she was already shoving open the door.
She didn’t get a toe over the threshold when Chas yanked her back, dragging the door closed behind her in one breathless movement.
“We aren’t finished,” he panted as he pinned her against the wall, his fingers angling just beneath her throat and holding her there with a wide, flat hand. Her heart pounded against his palm.
“Take your hands off me,” she snapped. She had no fear of him—it was pure anger that fueled her. Anger, and something beneath her skin that was just fighting to be set free. Something that sizzled and tingled and burned.
“Only one hand is on you,” he taunted, showing her the other that was free. He swung neatly aside when her knee jacked up, grinning when she missed—but the smile faltered when she hooked her foot around his knee and yanked, thanks to a neat move Temple had shown her months ago. He didn’t fall, but she jolted him off balance and they tumbled into each other, crashing into the wall.
She spun away, pulling loose from his grip, and bolted to her feet. She stood there, panting, hands on her hips. “Don’t touch me again.”
His smile taunted her. “I told you before—the life of a Venator is lonely.” He was out of breath enough to make Macey feel as if she’d won that round at least. “You can’t be with the Irish bloke, Macey. You know you can’t expose him to that sort of threat—whether it comes from Iscariot and his ilk, or that bloody Capone. You’re on your own, lulu.”
NINE
~ Wherein Sebastian Vioget Fail
s to be Surprised ~
It took Sebastian longer than it should have for his fangs to retract and his pulse to settle back into place. The sight of Macey—bloody and disheveled, eyes bright and determined, lips full and lush and beckoning, her scent carrying to him all the way across the room—standing there had tipped him into a vortex of need and desire.
He had to curl his fingers into the edge of the bar counter to keep from launching himself over it…to her. It wasn’t because he hadn’t seen her for months. It was simply because she was there.
Ready for him.
Damn it. No. Never that. God help me. Sebastian broke out in a cold sweat at the thought.
But the dreams about her had been taunting him for weeks now…and here she was, in the flesh. Returned at last.
No.
Thankfully, Temple realized what was happening and she broke the connection in her understated but effective manner. He owed her one.
Chas Woodmore…not so much. He’d been sitting at the end of the bar counter, having just arrived from somewhere and in a particularly foul mood—even for Woodmore—when Macey walked in.
Even now, Sebastian remained unsteady and off balance. He poured a too-large glass of the bourbon he’d brought in—smuggled was too complicated a word; he’d merely shipped it from France and convinced the customs officers it was nothing but a case of communion wine (the ability to enthrall did have its benefits)—then set the glass aside.
The last damn thing he needed was to impair himself even further.
He looked up as Temple came into view without Macey and Woodmore. She met his eyes and seemed relieved that he at least appeared steady, but ire flashed there. Sebastian didn’t have to think hard to wonder who had caused it. Woodmore was even more of an arse than Max Pesaro had ever been, and that was saying a lot.
“We’re closing up,” Sebastian announced loudly, aware of the alarming thuds now coming from the private rooms he kept adjacent to the pub. “Everyone out.”
The bitter grumbling that started was put to rest as Sebastian scanned the place with an unyielding expression. He didn’t even need to spark a glow in his eyes. “Your accounts will be settled later,” he added, knowing half of them never would. That, too, helped clear the place more quickly than anything other than a warning of “Fire!”—or “Raid!”—would do.
Just as the last few patrons made their exit, Macey stalked out of the back rooms with Woodmore in her wake. She was, thankfully, cleaned up and no longer looked as if she’d been devoured by a lustful vampire.
Sebastian relaxed even more and trusted himself to pour a finger—just a finger—of the bourbon in a fist-sized glass. Then, thinking even more clearly, he added a large slop of fresh cow’s blood to the whiskey and sipped.
Immediately, the lingering tension and the need for sustenance eased even more…though as Macey walked across the pub toward him, the low, golden light made her look even more like Victoria. Victoria’d even had short hair like that for a time, when they were in Prague to retrieve the second Ring of Jubai, and it sprang up the same way in thick, inky curls around her jaw and bared her long, slender neck.
Sebastian’s fangs pulsed, threatening to erupt again, and he surreptitiously reached for the vis bulla dangling beneath his shirt. The extra jolt from holy silver against the pads of his fingers served to remind him of his promise and gave him a surge of strength, so by the time Macey climbed onto a stool in front of him, Sebastian was able to smile at her with ease.
“Well, now—to what do we owe this pleasure, ma cher?”
“I’m sorry I haven’t been in contact,” she said immediately.
He noted an unusual bashfulness clinging to her, and recognized it was a little difficult for her to meet his eyes. Devil take it. Had he frightened her, or was it Woodmore who’d done the honors? He’d told no one about the dreams, that was damn well sure. Despite her reticence, there was a sort of underlying rage clinging to her as well as Woodmore.
A little uncertain himself, Sebastian chose not to reply; instead, he brought up three more glasses and poured a round for the trio now settling on stools at the corner of the bar. Temple, Macey, and Chas, clustered one by two.
Woodmore and Temple sipped without hesitation, but Macey looked at the bourbon as if it were poison.
“Come now,” Sebastian told her smoothly. “Let’s not be shy and demure, petit. We all know you left that carriage behind some while ago, and you clearly need a bracing drink. No one will know. And then you can tell us what happened.”
“I’m sure Chas would love to fill you in. I…I can’t stay.” She looked as if she were about to slide off the stool.
A snort from Woodmore drew Sebastian’s attention, and he moved automatically to refill the man’s glass. “Macey claims Capone is a Venator.” His lethal gaze settled accusingly on Sebastian. “A fact I suspect is not news to you, Vioget.”
Sebastian shrugged. “I suspected, but didn’t know for certain. There is an Alphonsus listed in the Bible.”
“A prevarication if I ever heard one. Not that I expected anything more from you,” Woodmore replied.
“I don’t understand. How can he be a Venator—be like us—and not do his job?” Macey seemed to have decided to stay. She sipped her drink, and Sebastian was pleased to see a little more color returning to her face. He avoided looking into her eyes for too long, however, knowing that was a trip he dared not take.
Not when he was feeling this vulnerable.
“Why don’t you ask Vioget here about Venators who shirk their duty?” Chas was clearly still in a foul mood, and he was doing his damnedest to bring Sebastian down into it as well. Bastard. “I’m sure he can enlighten you.”
Sebastian swallowed his fury. “Woodmore is referring to a period of time in which I declined to employ the stake,” he replied. “For a number of reasons that are no longer relevant, more than a century after the fact. But to answer your question, Macey, it’s actually not all that surprising for someone who’s been granted the power and abilities we have to use them to benefit themselves, rather than for the purpose for which they were given. It’s much easier—and less dangerous—not to hunt the undead, but instead use the vis bulla for other reasons. We all have free will, you know.”
Macey nodded. “Have there been other Venators who…well, became villains? Used their abilities for selfish reasons?”
“Unfortunately, yes. I haven’t ever encountered them myself, but there was Frederick, for one. Surely there were others, but history isn’t one of my strong suits. Now, back to the most pertinent question: why do you think Al Capone is showing so much interest in you?”
“He believes one of Rosamunde Gardella’s prophecies applies to us—to Big Al and me.”
The absurdity of the idea was beyond comprehension. “Indeed? And did he happen to tell you which one it was?” Sebastian didn’t attempt to hide his derision. If it was true Capone was one of them, Sebastian found it difficult to believe he could be much of a scholar about the family legacy. The bastard struck him as someone who had even less time for such mundane topics as history as Sebastian did.
“I have it written down,” Macey replied. “But it’s something about a dauntless one. He claims I’m the dauntless one, and he is the other half that makes the whole. But I don’t know what would make him believe it was about him.”
Sebastian looked at Temple, who nodded and rose gracefully from her seat. “I’ll see what I can find. Don’t wait up for me, boys.”
Out of habit, Sebastian watched her tall, elegant figure as she walked across the pub. How did women manage it on those high, chunky heels—especially to appear both graceful and sensual at the same time? Her hips moved sleekly; the silk of her dress slid over a sassy arse with every step. She was a hot piece, and he knew she found him attractive. But it wasn’t Temple he wanted.
Hell, it wasn’t even Macey. Not really. Not when it came down to it.
Not even Victoria, if she walked in the pub right this mom
ent—well, perhaps that wasn’t strictly true. After all, he had loved her. Although, after more than ten decades of self-examination, Sebastian supposed part of the motivation for that love might have been to taunt Max Pesaro.
But it was Giulia who filled his dreams. Giulia who held his heart. It was for her he’d done this.
But by God, if it didn’t end soon, Sebastian didn’t know if he could manage it.
What if it were another hundred years before his “long promise” was fulfilled? What if Macey walked in here again, all blood-covered—and with her own blood this time? Sebastian lifted his glass and took a long draw.
God help me. I’m done with this. I don’t know how much longer I can go on.
TEN
~ Of Questions, Answers, and Assumptions ~
Macey took another drink of whatever it was Sebastian had poured her. She was warmer now, looser…yet beneath it all she felt a sense of foreboding. The clock was ticking. What would Capone do when he realized she was gone?
How long did she have before he made good on his promises? Maybe he’d think she’d gone to the morgue to take care of Fanalucci’s body? If he did, that would give her more time…wouldn’t it?
Chas, who seemed to have shed most of his angry, challenging mood, fixed Macey with his attention. “What happened with your friend Flora at The Music Castle? Yes, of course I bloody well recognized her.”
Macey nodded and collected her thoughts—or tried to. This was the reason she’d come here tonight anyway. Even without Flora, she had questions. And she needed to talk to Sebastian and Chas—the only two people who really understood her situation. Temple, too, of course, but she wasn’t a Venator, and so she couldn’t wholly understand.
This time, Macey took a big gulp of the whiskey—or whatever it was—and drained the glass. It burned her throat and she had to stifle a cough, but even as her eyes watered, she set the glass down with a thunk. “More.”
While Sebastian, who didn’t bat an eyelash, filled hers and Chas’s glasses, she began to talk—grateful to be able to do so with two people she trusted.
Roaring Shadows: Macey Book 2 (The Gardella Vampire Hunters 8) Page 9