Roaring Dawn: Macey Book 3 (The Gardella Vampire Hunters 10)

by Colleen Gleason

  The tunnel was pitch black and endless. Macey Denton couldn’t see anything, including the stake in her hand. She felt her way blindly, the back of her neck cold as an iceberg. The brick beneath her fingertips was damp and rough, and the air smelled like rot, bodily functions, and unadulterated evil.

  She crept along, silent and steady, the rhythm of her pulse thudding solidly through her limbs. Her sturdy boots crunched fine pieces of stone, and knocked into heavier, larger ones. Something scuttled in the darkness, and something else dripped ominously.

  Malevolence radiated, quiet and pervasive, through the air.

  “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  Nicholas Iscariot’s rasping voice filled Macey’s ears as she fought to control her heartbeat—to keep it her own, instead of allowing it to be absorbed by the power he wielded. She knew what it was like to have her heartbeat connected to his.

  “I knew you’d come, Macey,” he said, his voice closer, somewhere in the dark. “You couldn’t stay away.” There was a lick of satisfaction in his tones as they filled the blackness.

  Suddenly there was a small circle of light. It surrounded a tall, skeletal-slim figure and cast a shape on the rough ground the size of Al Capone’s dinner plate. Iscariot was dressed in a pinstriped suit with a blood-red handkerchief in his breast pocket and a matching tie. In the center of the tie, something glowed, sickly green and malevolent.

  His dark hair was slicked back, gleaming as if it was wet, and only one half of his face was out of complete shadow. Those fine features—handsome in a stark, elegant way—were a chiaroscuro of shadow and light. His eyes blazed red. They were rimmed with a bold blue ring, as were all of Judas Iscariot’s children, and Macey was careful to keep her gaze slightly averted from his powerful one.

  Iscariot turned his head slightly, and now she saw his other cheek: marred by a burn in the shape of a thick cross. She allowed a grim, satisfied smile to curve her lips, for she’d been the one to put that scar on his face.

  “Of course I came,” she replied. “I couldn’t resist looking at your handsome face.” She braced herself, expecting him to launch toward her in fury.

  She would end this now. Tonight. The stake was firm in her grip. She was ready.

  Her heartbeat was her own.

  Instead, he showed her his fangs and, to her surprise, became very still. His eyes burned brighter.

  He seemed to wait…to concentrate. Something shifted in the air, and she felt the space between them change. It thickened. Shimmered darkly. Her breathing clogged a little, and her pulse began to thud a trifle slower. He was fighting to capture her heartbeat, to make it his own. To get into her very blood, to control the depths of her heart.

  To control her.

  As she fought the tug, Iscariot recognized it and smiled lasciviously. He displayed a mouthful of wicked fangs, and his tongue slipped out, red and glistening. As the air between them pulsed with power, stretching and shimmering with malevolence, he licked his lips as if tasting something delicious. His eyes burned on her with lust and hatred.

  “We are well matched, Macey Gardella,” he told her, his gaze resting heavily on her as the energy pull eased. Nevertheless, she continued to avoid his eyes and forced back the desire of her heart to meet the pulsing beats of his. “You’ve marked me, but I too have marked you.” His white hand moved sharply.

  A searing pain streaked down the front of her torso, tracing her sternum from the hollow of her throat to the bottom of her ribcage.

  She felt a sudden rush of blood springing from the scar that had healed over months ago, striping the front of her shirt. And then a second hot pain, around the nipple of her left breast.

  Iscariot’s eyes blazed with fever, but he still didn’t move toward her. Instead, he made a sharp gesture with his hand and another light popped on—somehow, someway in this primitive tunnel, he created a small spotlight with the flick of a finger.

  Macey stilled when she saw the subject of the spotlight. Grady.

  Her former lover wasn’t looking at her. He sagged between two undead who held him with their sharp-nailed hands. There was a lot of blood.

  No.

  It took every bit of control she owned to keep from moving to him.

  No. Wayren, you promised he’d be safe. You promised.

  Macey was paralyzed, and she could do nothing…nothing…as Iscariot cast a knowing smile at her and moved to Grady.

  A cry lodged in her throat, but she couldn’t reveal her terror. She couldn’t let them know. Couldn’t expose herself, couldn’t do a thing to save him…

  “The rings, Macey. Give me the rings.”

  No. I can’t…Oh, God, don’t make me choose…

  “Give me the rings…and he will live,” Iscariot said.

  As if on cue, Grady lifted his face and looked right at her.

  His lake-blue eyes. They were filled with pain and terror, pleading…but no recognition flared in them when he looked at Macey.

  Nothing.

  He didn’t know her.

  He was going to die, and he didn’t even know why.

  “So be it.” Iscariot cast her a triumphant smile as he swirled toward Grady in a flutter of black cloak, wide and heavy, and as enveloping as the darkness in the tunnel.

  Macey screamed inside, horror rushing through her as the cloak wrapped around her, heavy as death, tight as bindings. She raged and twisted, fighting to free herself, to go to Grady as Iscariot tore into him with fangs and sharp nails.

  Blood, everywhere, blood…

  Blood…darkness, binding her, smothering her…

  + + +

  Macey woke suddenly, bolting upright amid twisted blankets. Her face was wet, and her chest heaved as if she’d run miles. She was shaking.

  Oh God, oh God, no.

  It was just a dream. Just a dream.

  She looked around, straining into the dim light that filtered from beneath her bedroom door. She forced herself to see the shape of familiar objects in the room: a glint from the mirrored dressing table holding her pocketbook, combs, and jewelry, the tall, odd hat stand with the new pink confection from Aunt Cookie, the bulky chair where she’d tossed her dress and stockings hours ago.

  Panting but no longer disoriented, Macey flung back her covers and got out of bed. The very action of putting her feet on solid ground helped bring her back to now, to reality.

  Just a dream.

  Her heart still hammered, and her knees were trembling…but it was just a dream.

  Yet it was a dream that could very well come true.

  Clammy with cold sweat, she made her way in the dark to wash her face. By the time she drank a large glass of water and dried her hands, the trembling had stopped and she was breathing normally.

  But she wasn’t going back to sleep.

  Macey glanced at the bed, a mountain of lumps in the strained light. She could make out the hills of its cyclonic mess of sheets and coverlet, and was incredibly grateful Chas hadn’t been there to witness such a display.

  But then again, he had his own demons.

  What a pair they were, she and Chas Woodmore.

  Her pulse still a little off balance, Macey shrugged into an ivory chenille robe that comforted her with its soft, fluffy embrace.

  She slipped out of her bedroom, padding down the silent corridor lit by a single sconce. Temple’s room was at the end—she’d been encouraged to take over the one that had belonged to Sebastian, as it was the largest and most comfortable.

  Now that she was no longer allowing Al Capone to blackmail her, Macey had moved into another of the small apartments connected to The Silver Chalice. There were several rooms and hallways, plus a kitchen and living space that spanned the underground area between the pub and Cookie’s Smart Millinery—a hat shop located down the block and behind The Silver Chalice.

  When Macey opened the silver-gilded, cross-encrusted door that separated those back rooms from the pub, she expected to find the bar silent and empty. After all,
it was well past dawn. Sebastian—and now Temple—had always closed up just before sunrise because he slept during much of the day, as most vampires were wont to do, and opened at sundown.

  But damn, the place wasn’t empty. Chas was there. He sat at the long, scarred counter, nursing a glass of something considered illegal, thanks to the U.S. government.

  Macey hesitated. The last thing she wanted was to be drawn into conversation with anyone—let alone one as perceptive and blunt as Chas.

  But it was too late. As careful as she’d been, he’d obviously heard the soft sweep of the door, and turned to look. Macey saw hard weariness and irritation on his face. That was nothing new—those emotions were usually etched there, except in rare moments of levity or passion…both of which she’d experienced firsthand.

  “You all right?” he asked in a rough voice. “You’re up early for having been out all night on the streets. At least, that’s where I assume you were. What happened?”

  She wanted to turn back around and retreat to the sanctuary of her room before he saw the fear and discomfort lingering in her eyes…or before she did something else equally foolish.

  But at the same time, as much as she wanted escape, she was drawn to him. He was magnetic and powerful in an unsettling way. And one thing Chas did well was help her forget. Help her clear her mind—or empty it, depending how one looked at it.

  And Macey was in desperate need of clearing her mind. So she sat on a stool at the corner of the bar as she tightened the belt of her robe.

  “Couldn’t sleep,” was all she said.

  He looked up at her from beneath a thick lock of blue-black hair without moving his head. Just his eyes: dark, bloodshot, heavy-lidded. Nevertheless, they were lit with something that made her pulse leap and her mouth go dry again. “I know a remedy for that.” His lips quirked up a little on one side.

  “And so you do,” she replied, holding his gaze while her insides flipped and dove, and a sizzle of heat shot through her. But it was ruined by a pang of sadness.

  She looked away. “When did you get back?” He’d gone off somewhere for a few days without warning. But at least he’d left a note, so she didn’t wonder whether he too was gone for good.

  “A while ago. Did you miss me?”

  No. Yes. A little. Maybe. More than I should’ve, you arrogant, frustrating bastard.

  After all, it was just he and Macey now left to face Nicholas Iscariot. To find a way to destroy the powerful vampire lord. And unless one of them turned out to be the so-called “dauntless one,” Macey wasn’t certain of their chances at success, as foretold in Lady Rosamunde’s prophecy:

  “Upon its unleashing, a root of malevolence shall marshal such power as never before known. It shall permeate far and deep, and only the dauntless one and his peer shall rise up to it.”

  Thus, without Chas…she was on her own. So he’d better stick around.

  And without the dauntless one and his peer—who Al Capone, at least, had believed was Macey herself—what were their chances of stopping the “root of malevolence,” which could only be Nicholas Iscariot? Perhaps not enough.

  But no. She hadn’t missed Chas. Not in the way he implied.

  Macey chose not to respond, and the question sat there between them, seeming to pulse in the silence.

  He set his empty glass back on the counter. “Christ—it’s not like I asked if you loved me.”

  “That’d be a hell of a lot easier to answer,” she muttered, casting him a sidewise look.

  Chas’s grin flashed, then was buried as he reached for the bottle and refilled his drink. His hand was steady. “Want some?”

  “It’s seven o’clock in the morning.”

  He shrugged. “You look as if you had a rough night.”

  “Maybe I did.”

  “The question is—was it a rough night out, or was it a rough night in?”

  He really was too perceptive. Just another reason to find him annoying. But she could turn that around, poke him back. “So where were you for three days?”

  “I had things to attend to,” he replied.

  Silence settled there, taut and tense and fraught with too many unspoken words.

  “Well this is a fine conversation,” she said, suddenly impatient. “Neither of us giving anything up.” She used one hand to vault herself over the counter, landing easily in Sebastian’s old spot behind it. She bent to dig out a short, heavy glass.

  “It’s morning here, but somewhere else in the world, where there are no bloody vampires, it’s seven at night,” she said, and slammed the vessel onto the counter. “So I’m in.”

  “Best way I know to forget things you’re better off forgetting,” he said, and tipped the bottle to fill her glass with a thin gold stream. “Well…second best way.” He gave her that look again—and this time, the shot of heat went right to the pit of her belly and below. And stayed there.

  Macey considered him, considered the offer, and lifted her glass to drink. He was right, dammit. And the way she was feeling—the way she’d been feeling the last few weeks—maybe a good, hard roll in the proverbial hay would be just the ticket she needed.

  Because if she was going to keep having those nightmares—

  “Ugh!” She pulled the glass away from her mouth and glared down at it. “What the hell is this?” Sharp and bitter and flat was what it was.

  Chas’s mouth twitched again. “Hardly a level above rotgut, if you ask me, but I don’t know where Temple is putting the good stuff anymore.”

  Macey dumped the thin liquid down the sink and slammed her glass back onto the counter. “I know where she keeps the really good stuff—the bottle Sebastian had been hiding from… Well, hiding. Turn around, if you please.”

  He rolled his eyes, but to her surprise, he complied, swiveling on the stool so his back was to her.

  Once she was certain he wasn’t watching, she pulled a narrow rack of glasses aside beneath the counter, revealing the thick metal door of a safe. A little twist of the knob and she opened it to reveal the inside, which contained three bottles of the most unusual liqueur she’d ever tasted—not that she was any expert. None were labeled, but one of them had been opened and was corked with a pyramid-shaped onyx stopper.

  She pulled it out as Chas turned around. “So that’s where she keeps it.”

  They—she, Chas, Temple, and even Wayren—had offered a toast to Sebastian from that very bottle on the night he died.

  Macey lifted a brow as she poured the rosy-gold liqueur into her glass. “I think you’d best forget whatever you might think you know, Chas.”

  He shoved his empty—again—glass toward her, then—

  “What the hell?” Chas fairly knocked over the precious bottle, he moved so abruptly, lashing out to grab her by the arm. “Macey, what the hell is that?”

  She was so shocked, she couldn’t form a reply—but then she saw he was staring down at the opening of her robe-, at the red line seeping down the front of her nightshirt. Down the center, along her sternum.

  Fresh blood.

  From Iscariot.

  Her head went light and dizzy. “But it was a dream,” she whispered, pulling out of his grip, dragging the robe away. She brushed wildly at it like Lady Macbeth. Out, out, damned spot… “It was a dream.”

  There was another stripe of blood, around the front of her left breast. Her heart began to thud wildly, deep and heavy.

  “What the hell are you talking about, a dream? I know that’s from Iscariot. Did you see him? When did you see him?”

  “It was a dream,” she said once more, numb and cold. The cotton was damp—the blood was real—and the red lines were growing thicker.

  “But you’re bleeding. From your old scars.” Any trace of inebriation in Chas’s voice was gone.

  “In the dream, he made me bleed like this. I-I didn’t realize…” Her hands were ice cold. How? Her heart thudded as she stared down at the impossible sight.

  “You didn’t see him except in
your dream?” Chas repeated. “Iscariot made it happen…from a dream? Good Christ.” His eyes were filled with shock.

  Macey had already begun to unbutton her nightshirt—just to make sure. She had to make certain…she had to see it with her own eyes.

  “My God,” he whispered when she pulled apart the top of her shirt.

  She looked down and saw the line of blood, somehow—impossibly somehow—erupting from her skin.

  “It’s real,” she whispered. The realization made her cold with terror. “It’s real.” She looked up at Chas to see the same emotions reflected in his eyes.

  “He wants the rings,” she said, putting into words what they both knew.

  “Yes. And until he gets them, or we destroy him…” He shook his head, his lips flat and grim.

  Neither needed to put it into words. Iscariot would bring hell to Chicago, hell to them all, in order to get those rings.

  And it was only the two of them to stop him.

  TWO

  ~ Solitude in the Sanctuary ~

  But the Rings of Jubai were as safe as they possibly could be.

  Nicholas Iscariot had no hope of retrieving them on his own, for at Wayren’s suggestion, the five copper bands had been secreted in the sacristy of St. Patrick’s, a very small, unremarkable church Sebastian had visited on a regular basis.

  It was into this church that Macey stepped, two evenings after she had the nightmare, cutting off the symphony of Chicago by night. The distant echo of gunshots, accompanied by the sounds of automobile horns and squealing tires, was left behind as she moved into the silent space.

  She eased the heavy wooden doors closed—denying them even their normal soft thump as the solid walnut panels settled into place. Inside, the place was quiet and dim, filled with flickering candles and traces of the essence of frankincense. The Easter lilies were gone, and a large red banner had taken their place.

  This evening, the church was empty but for a solitary figure near the front.

  Her heart squeezed, for the person who knelt in prayer was not the elderly woman whom she’d come to know—and who’d given her the rosary that saved her life twice. No, that wise woman was gone, and Macey had lost yet another guiding mentor in her life.