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

by Colleen Gleason

  “And mine,” Macey managed to say. Now her smile was genuine, but when she transferred her attention to Grady, she made her expression turn cool and remote.

  “Since he’s obviously not giving up the details, allow me to ask how you know Jameson,” said Miss McCormick, looking up at him as if he were a moving pictures star. “Obviously, I know him because he’s my cousin’s star reporter—you did hear about the counterfeit gang he busted up, didn’t you, Miss Denton? What a hero he was, nearly getting burned up in that warehouse fire!”

  Several reactions pinged in Macey’s brain during Miss McCormick’s enthusiastic speech, but the one that settled right in the front of her mind was “Jameson.” So the J was for Jameson.

  Quickly following that tidbit of information was shock that he’d nearly died. And she’d had no idea any of it had happened.

  And the irony was…his near-death hadn’t been at the hands of Capone or the undead.

  “Miss Denton don’t get around to reading the newspapers all that often.”

  Macey’s heart lurched as Capone’s hard Brooklyn tones cut into the conversation. She shot a look at Grady, who’d gone rigid and stone-faced, then turned as Big Al continued, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Grady. I want to personally thank you for your work exposing the counterfeiting scheme.” He offered his hand.

  “Thank you.” Grady didn’t sound as if he meant it. In fact, he did very little to hide his loathing for the crime boss, though he didn’t go as far as ignoring the proffered handshake.

  Capone wasn’t the powerful man he was without being aware of his effect on people, but he didn’t seem to mind. “Those scumbags took me for over a hundred thousand bucks with their fake tenners,” he continued. He held one of the small teacups in his hand and gestured a little, sloshing the liquid over his French-cuffed sleeve. “I got a lotta hands in a lotta pies, but there’s one thing I ain’t interested in, and it’s fake money.” He leaned closer to Grady. His voice dropped lower, but Macey could still hear him when he said, “You ever want a job’t pays better than sniffing out news stories, you come see me.”

  “I don’t think so, Mr. Capone,” Grady replied. “You and I operate on different sides of the law—and I have no interest in crossing that river. Excuse me.” Without another look at Macey, he turned smoothly, taking Carol McCormick with him. They strolled off through the crowd of glittering jewels, black evening jackets, and rainbows of silk and satin: a tall, confident figure partnered with a slender, elegant, glittering blond one.

  That left Capone and Macey alone, and she steeled her expression into a cold, emotionless mask. “And there he goes—your last bit of leverage over me, Scarface. You wouldn’t take the risk of hurting someone you admire so much—and quite frankly, after the way he spoke to me tonight, I wouldn’t care if you did.”

  “I’m not so certain about that, doll.” Capone waved at one of the Japanese-garbed waiters and gestured sharply with his empty teacup. The waiter produced a flask and covertly filled the mobster’s glass, neatly replacing the contraband bottle back into the pocket of his loose kimono in mere seconds.

  She leaned closer, dropping her voice. “Well, you can be certain about this, Mr. Capone: as of tonight, I’m no longer in your employ. And as of tonight, if anything happens to any of my friends or anyone with a connection to me, I’m placing the blame squarely on you.”

  “That oughta be interesting.”

  It was Capone’s sly, dismissive comment that sent her over the edge. “Just try me, Alphonsus.”

  He laughed. “You don’t frighten me, you dumb broad. You’re—”

  Macey stepped closer, right up to him so she brushed against his belly. “I should frighten the hell out of you. I know far too much about you—and I’m certain Nicholas Iscariot would be delighted to know that you wear the vis bulla. More than that, he’d be even more pleased to foil the ‘dauntless one’s’ prophecy by ridding the earth of you and your Chianti-swilling ass. You’ve already indicated how incapable you are of protecting yourself from the undead without a woman to protect you,” she said from between her teeth.

  “Why, you little bitch. You know what happened to da last person who made vague threats at me? He ended up in the goddamn morgue wid a bullet through his head.” His Brooklyn accent came through like a thick and chunky pasta sauce.

  “Then let me clear up any vagueness. This is not a threat, Alphonsus. This is fact. If any harm comes to Grady or any other of my friends or associates, I’ll make certain the undead know exactly where to find you…and precisely how to get to you. And I can guarantee that if anything happens to me, every single Venator on this earth—including my father, if he happens to be alive—will be out for you before you can load your gun.”

  She fixed him with one last hard, steady look. Then, as if she were a queen, Macey turned deliberately and gracefully—and blundered off into the crowd, hardly noticing where she was going.

  Her lungs were heaving, and, admittedly, her knees were more than a little trembly, but she was liberated. The line in the sand had been drawn.

  Capone had a lot more to lose than she did.

  It was her own damned fault she had taken so long to realize it.

  EIGHTEEN

  ~ Miss McCormick Becomes a Topic ~

  Macey walked away as if she had a destination, even though she had nowhere in mind except to get as far from Capone and Grady as possible. Then—yes. There.

  She pushed open the door to the ladies’ lounge with relief, aware that her heart was pounding with what doctors called adrenaline.

  I’m free.

  She stopped in front of the nearest stretch of mirror and stared at herself. Other than bright red patches of emotion on each cheek, she had to admit, she looked pretty good. Strong. Bold. Fearsome. And put together just as beautifully as the lovely Miss McCormick—thanks to her now-former employer.

  But now that she was done with Capone, she wouldn’t be dressing like this anymore. Except for the hats she’d get from Temple’s Aunt Cookie, which were quite exquisite.

  Macey fixed an awkward curl, pinning it above her ear with a jet-and-ruby-beaded hairpin with a hand that was now steady. She also made certain the long jet-black earrings were still screwed tightly in place, adjusting them slightly because her earlobes were beginning to ache. Then, realizing she had no reason to stay here—in the lounge or at the Art Institute—she went through the door and found herself back in the midst of the glittering gala. Not wanting to be noticed, however, she slipped behind one of the big columns near a corner and took a look around to get her bearings.

  From her safe corner out of sight of the party attendees, she scanned the crowd for a glimpse of Grady (she told herself it was simply because she didn’t want to run into him again), but she didn’t see him—or the beacon-haired Miss McCormick.

  Had they ducked out for a bit of privacy? Were they walking through one of the deserted galleries, searching for a private corner—like the one in which she was lingering?

  She scowled a little at the reminder of how good Grady was at taking advantage of private corners—or high-walled booth tables, for that matter—sliding closer and pulling a gal near for a thorough bit of kissing and hugging while he looked into her eyes and called her “lass” in that delicious brogue. A little shiver of memory caught her by surprise and she shoved it away, forcibly replacing the memory of his face with that of Chas.

  “Hey there, doll,” came a smooth voice behind her. “You look a little lost.”

  Macey turned. The man behind her was tall and wide, and he edged far too close to her with his powerful body. She didn’t recognize him—nor was he an undead—but his demeanor wasn’t one that instilled comfort or pleasure; in fact, the barely veiled lasciviousness in his eyes made her frown.

  “I’m not,” she said. “Lost. Thank you for your concern.” She would have brushed past him, but he caught her arm.

  “What’s the hurry, tootsie?” His fingers were tight and he quic
kly and neatly pivoted her back into the shadows, following with his bulky body. “Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be walking around by yourself in a place like this.”

  “In a place like what?” she asked calmly. The fury, guilt, and other unpleasant emotions she’d tamped down and away throughout the evening were bubbling nicely to the surface—and the lout in front of her had no idea he was about to be the recipient of their explosion. “And I wasn’t walking. Let go of me.”

  “Come on now, tootsie roll,” he said, pushing her back toward the wall. His eyes were dark and hungry and he brushed a finger over the bare skin of her throat. “You look lonely.”

  “I won’t say it again. Take your hands off me.” She kept her voice pleasant, but her eyes were steely and hard. Inside, she was smiling. What was that old saying? The bigger they were…

  “Now don’t be shy, dollface. I know how to make a gal—”

  A loud pop! followed by a flash of light had Macey’s assailant spinning around in shock.

  “That’s a great shot there, Mr. Badgley. How about a nice smile now, while I get another one of the woman you’re accosting in the corner, still cowering away from you as you hold her in place.” Grady stood there, speaking through a cold, humorless smile. “Would you care to finish your statement about you know how to make a gal…what was it you were going to say? Cringe? I’m sure Mrs. Badgley will appreciate it when the story hits the front page tomorrow.” He let the heavy camera hang from its strap around his neck and pulled out a notebook and pencil.

  Badgley growled something and took a threatening step toward Grady, but the other man didn’t back down. “Is that a ‘no comment’?” His voice was hard, and Macey noticed his pencil hand gripped the camera as if it were a weapon.

  “Give me that damned film,” snarled Badgley.

  “Just try and take it.” Grady met him, glare for glare, steady and calm. When Badgley eased back, the news hawk growled, “Now get the hell away from here. And if I see you with your hands on any other woman who’s not your wife, I’ll print these pictures. Or better yet—I’ll send copies of them to your wife. I suspect her rich daddy won’t appreciate it at all. Now get your arse away from here.”

  Apparently, Badgley was smart enough to know when he was out of choices, and he stalked off into the glitz and glamour of the gala. That left Macey and Grady alone in the dimly lit alcove.

  “I didn’t need your help,” she said, suddenly furious and unsettled at being alone with him—and being the recipient of his unnecessary gallantry. “I was just about to take care of him when you interrupted. Thanks for nothing.” She had to keep her distance and her ire up, but she didn’t find it difficult. She was irritated that Grady had ruined the perfect chance for her to blow off some steam.

  “Though Badgley would have deserved flying across the room and landing in the middle of the marble floor, I didn’t think it was prudent for you to draw attention to yourself.” He wasn’t smiling, but he wasn’t exactly glowering at her anymore either. “A little difficult to explain that sort of strength.”

  “How did you know that’s what—” Macey felt a rush of heat bloom over her cheeks.

  Their eyes met and she knew he remembered too…that moment in his bedroom when he’d undressed her and discovered the elegant little vis bulla dangling from her navel.

  How strong? he’d asked, sifting it gently between his fingers, watching her with deep blue eyes.

  I could throw you across the room if I wanted. Want to try me?

  Ah, no, Macey, lass. I’ve got other things on my mind…

  “So,” she said, quickly marshaling her thoughts, reengaging her protective shield, ignoring the memory that was making her insides turn into a hot mush, “dating the boss’s younger cousin, are you? And star investigative reporter now. Moving up in the world, aren’t you, Grady.”

  He stepped back a little, a gesture for which she was supremely grateful. For it was becoming difficult to ignore the familiarity of him—the smell of his skin, the sight of the hair through which she’d run her fingers, the lips she’d kissed, the eyes that had looked at her with love. His entire being.

  “Carol’s a nice gal,” he said, glancing up as the lights flickered. “But—”

  The lights went out. Everything was pitch black.

  NINETEEN

  ~ Standoff in the Gallery ~

  Grady wasn’t surprised when, unlike every other woman in the vicinity, Macey didn’t scream or even gasp when the lights went out.

  In fact, she pushed past him, brushing against his jacket sleeve with her quick, compact body. He reacted smoothly enough to grab her arm as she went by. Her gossamer sleeve felt rich and sensuous under his fingers. He remembered the tiny red and black beads glinting in the dark curls at her temple.

  “Vampires?” he asked in the vicinity of where her ear should be. He felt the soft brush of her hair against his cheek and caught a good whiff of her—floral and lightly sweet—and closed his eyes as a pang of regret and pain twinged in his belly.

  She paused long enough to answer his question—“Not this time”—then was off into the pitch black of the art gallery.

  Grady resisted the urge to go after her for a number of reasons; the most relevant being that she didn’t need his help or protection. She, clearly, didn’t want anything from him—something he needed to remind himself. Daily.

  He’d been hanging around vampire hunters and counterfeiters too much lately. Just because the lights had gone out didn’t mean anything was wrong—even though, from the number of nervous, high-pitched giggles that still penetrated the darkness, along with low-voiced conversation tinged with concern, no one else seemed to agree.

  But before he could move out of the shadowy alcove and make his way back to the main galley, the lights overhead sizzled and popped, then came back on. There was a soft wave of voices lifting with relief and excitement as the party went back into full swing as if nothing had happened. If Grady didn’t know any better, he would have thought Macey planned it all as a way to escape from him. Hell, for all he knew, she had.

  He frowned and took the opportunity to unhook the camera strap from around his neck, tucking the pencil and notebook back in his pocket…and it was then he realized the chattering and the undercurrent of uncomfortable chuckles had suddenly turned to silence.

  Something was wrong.

  Grady heard a soft scuffling sound and absolutely nothing else. He silently put the heavy camera onto the floor deep in the corner and listened, keeping himself tucked behind the large pillar that had hidden Badgley and Macey from passersby.

  Then there was a voice. It wasn’t terribly loud, but it carried and it had authority. Or, rather, its words had authority.

  “Thank you for your attention, ladies and gentlemen. If everyone will do just as I say, this young lady here won’t get hurt.”

  The silence tightened and Grady was desperate to look around the pillar, but he knew he had to make certain he wasn’t seen. Yet his palms had gone damp and his insides swirled because he was certain the “young lady” was Macey. It had to be Macey.

  Whatever was going on, she would surely be in the middle of it.

  He put that fear roughly from his mind and looked up at the tall, round pillar, tried to tell his heart she knew how to take care of herself. And if he could climb high enough up the column, no one would see him and he could look down and see what was going on.

  He considered his options. There was a decorative base at knee height, and then another flourish—like a small platform—just above his head. That would be a good start if he could get there without being noticed.

  “Everyone into the center here where I can see you,” came the authoritative voice. “All of you. Move slowly and carefully and keep your hands held high—right where I can see them. Remember, this young woman’s life—and your own—is at stake.”

  Swiftly, Grady pulled off his shiny black shoes then stockings, taking care to remain out of sight and soundless. Wh
en a shadow carrying a long, ominous shape fell on the floor just beyond his hiding place, Grady froze and flattened himself against the column. He edged around the pillar, matching the speed of the approaching gunman in order to stay out of sight, but taking care not to go too far around the column so he was seen on the other side.

  But it was when he was halfway around the column that he was able to catch a glimpse of what was happening. The sight of four men holding Tommy guns pointed at the crowd of people made his insides freeze, but it was a fifth man—presumably the speaker—who was holding a woman up against him, his arm around her throat, and a bent elbow indicating some sort of weapon pointed at her.

  The woman was wearing red—like Macey—but that was all Grady could see of her.

  The sound of approaching footfalls jolted his attention away from the scenario. He shifted around the column just in time to remain out of sight of the man who’d just passed by. Now he wasn’t alone, however, and was using the slender barrel of his gun to direct two partygoers ahead of him. They too had their hands held high.

  “I’ve got two more,” called the gunman as he prodded his captives toward the main gathering. “They were cowering in the toilets.”

  Grady didn’t have any time to waste; these bandits—or whoever they were—were clearly going to be thorough about rounding up everyone. He’d already whipped off his tuxedo jacket, tie, and waistcoat, and now he bundled them into the corner with his shoes and stockings.

  After removing his suspenders and hanging them around his neck, he climbed on top of the decorative base around the column. It was barely wide enough for him to perch on it tiptoe. He curled his feet down and around the smooth edges, and that little boost in height was all he needed to be able to fully grasp the upper ledge that was now at the level of his forehead. The ledge was hardly any wider than the base, but Grady was able to grip using the column’s vertical grooves for his flexible toes, and the power of his hands and arms to pull himself up to—and then, carefully but quickly, past—the small platform.