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

by Colleen Gleason

  “But you were only little, that’s true, I’ll give you that. So maybe you weren’t old enough to make a decision about what was best, at that time. But Grady—he was. He is. He’s more of a man than ninety percent of the fellas in this city.”

  Macey’s chest felt tight. “It’s not the same. Grady isn’t a Gardella, he isn’t a Venator—he doesn’t know what he’d be getting into.”

  Temple was shaking her head, and her expression was steely. “He was just as instrumental as you were in getting out of that theater with Sebastian, wasn’t he? And he right as rain made a difference when you and a hundred other people almost got blew up at the museum.” She leaned forward. “All I’m saying to you, sister, is that you made the same decision about Grady your father made about you. And so you, my dear pot, should not be calling the kettle black.”

  Macey settled back into her chair, firming her lips. Suddenly the beignet and its sweet dusting of sugar tasted like dirt. It was different with Grady. He wasn’t part of a family that had been called to a dangerous duty for centuries. He was an outsider. He wasn’t equipped to protect himself from the undead.

  “Poor, darling child,” Cookie said, patting Macey’s hand with her soft, cool one. “And you having to get over the loss of your mama at the same time as your daddy leaving you.”

  “That’s right,” Macey said, tears suddenly springing to her eyes. “He left me—when I needed him…the most. He sent me…away. They told me he…died. I grew up thinking I was an…orphan.”

  “Aw, Macey, I’m not saying your daddy didn’t do you no wrong. But he had his reasons, just as you did with Grady, and him being a man… Well, he might not have made the right choices. They hardly ever do. I just think you ought to consider his side of the story, since you’ve got a similar one yourself,” Temple said.

  Cookie handed her a lace-edged handkerchief, and Macey wiped her eyes and then her nose. All of a sudden, she was more sad than angry. It was as if all of the grief from when she was a child came rushing back, pushing away her feelings of righteousness.

  “I’m sure your daddy loves you very much—and he did what he did for that reason,” Temple added.

  Just as you did to Grady.

  She didn’t actually say those words, but Macey heard them as clearly as if she had.

  “And now he’s come back,” Cookie said brightly—as if that solved everything.

  And now he’s come back. But what did that mean?

  Macey rose. “Thank you for the coffee, Aunt Cookie. I’m going to—I was on my way out. I need some air.”

  “Air? Bless your heart; you’re as likely to drown as to breathe out in that soupy mess,” Cookie said, looking at the rain-streaked window.

  “I don’t mind.”

  The outside air was chilly and damp, and Macey was glad she’d chosen to wear trousers and a hat instead of a dress or skirt, as she had last night. Though it was just approaching noon, the day was as dim and dark as if it were near twilight—and the streets were virtually empty.

  Only a single vehicle drove down the road, its tires softly crunching the damp concrete. The rain had eased up a bit, but the mist was thick and drops plopped onto her hat and ran off its brim. Her shoes and the hems of her trousers were damp within a few steps.

  Someone was looking out for her, for Macey was able to hail a taxi more quickly than she’d expected. “The Lexington Hotel,” she told the driver as she took off her hat and shook off the rain.

  Despite her masculine garb, Capone’s goons recognized her, and one of them agreed to take her up to the gangster’s penthouse—but only after she gave them the pistol and knife she carried.

  “Hey, boss,” called Tony as he escorted Macey into the room after a fourteen-floor elevator ride. “You got a visitor.”

  “Well, well, Snorky,” she said, walking into the private suite as if she owned it. “Got yourself hidden away today, do you? Afraid you might melt in the pouring rain?”

  “What da hell are you doing here?” Capone had fairly bolted out of his chair, the ash from his cigar flying everywhere and the wine glass on his desk wobbling alarmingly. He looked behind her as if waiting for someone else to appear, yet at the same time, trying to appear unconcerned. “Tony, I thought I told you I didn’t wanna see her no more.”

  “But she ain’t packing nothing—I checked myself—and your wife’s not here,” Tony replied, looking from his boss to Macey as if he couldn’t understand why Capone would be so nervous about a slip of a woman like Macey—especially if she was unarmed. “Besides, she said she left some of her things here, and—”

  “Get outta here,” Capone told his goon, looking somewhere between furious and mortified—neither of which boded well for poor Tony. “And don’t let no one else in. You hear me? No one.”

  “Right, boss.”

  “Thank you, Tony.” Macey gave him a sweet smile.

  Still wearing a confused expression, Tony left the penthouse.

  Capone turned to Macey. “Whaddaya want, doll? I thought our bizness was done.”

  “I’ve discovered something since I left your employ, Scarface.” He hated that nickname, and therefore Macey used it with relish.

  “Don’t fucking call me dat, you bit—doll.” Capone was clearly reining himself in. “Tell me what you want, then get da hell outta here. I ain’t got time for you.”

  “My father is still alive.”

  He pursed his mouth and tried to look surprised, but Macey realized immediately that wasn’t the case. “You knew he was alive?” She started across the room, ready to yank him up by the jacket and slam the bastard against the wall—but she thought better of it at the last minute, for she’d probably make a hole in the dry wall. “He’s here in Chicago.”

  “Yeah. I’m aware of that.”

  “You are, are you—Wait.” Macey suddenly went cold and angry herself. “When did you see him?”

  Capone shrugged. “He came for a visit a week or so ago. We had a nice chat.”

  “A nice chat?”

  Capone looked supremely uncomfortable. “Look, doll, the last thing I need is Max Denton breathing down my neck. So get your stuff and get outta here. I ain’t got nothing to do with you Venators anymore anyway.”

  Macey stared at him with dawning comprehension. “Do you mean my father came here and told you to stay away from me?” Her head felt as if it were about to explode. She was going to be an orphan after all, because she was going to kill her father. How dare he? She’d handled everything all on her own. She’d rid herself of Capone on her own terms, not because her daddy had come and set things straight…hadn’t she?

  Capone seemed to realize he’d set off a powder keg, and he held up his hands. “We had other bizness, there, doll, and we come to an agreement. I gave up my vis bulla and he promised to let me alone. We were both happy with dat.”

  “What do you mean, you gave it up? You can’t just give it up—can you?” She glared at him, and his eyes shifted away.

  “He took it. All right? The asshole took it from me, and since he did dat, it means I ain’t got nothing to do with you all anymore.”

  “He can do that?”

  “He’s the summas, ain’t he? He and dat Wayren broad can do whatever da fuck dey want,” Capone replied, no longer attempting to hide his fury. “At least I already got my reputation built up solid. Most’a da city’s terrified of me. I don’t need that damned—er—that blessed thing stuck through my skin anyway. Always kept getting caught on my shirt and all.”

  “Do you mean to say you lost your Venator powers when Max took away your vis bulla?” She didn’t think that was possible. Victoria Gardella lost her vis—but that hadn’t changed her abilities, had it? Maybe slowed her down a little? Macey was a little fuzzy on some of the details of her family history, to be sure, but she was certain the loss of a vis didn’t cause Venator powers to go away.

  “It ain’t just the vis bulla being gone, all right? It’s just—I dunno—something he did or the
y did. Him and dat dame in the long dress. Dey made me normal again.”

  “So you can’t sense the undead anymore? You don’t have extra strength and fast healing?” Macey stepped toward him. “Let’s test that out, shall we?” She was mad enough, frustrated enough, to try it out.

  “I ain’t no lightweight, doll,” he said, his eyes glinting. “I can’t sense the undead, but I sure as hell can take you down if I want.”

  Macey was sorely tempted. The thought of a good fight was right up there with having a few choice words with the almighty Max Denton.

  But she thought better of it—this time. Any sort of altercation would send Capone’s goons running, armed with Tommy guns and pistols. They might shoot and ask questions later.

  “Not tonight, Scarface. Maybe another time. I’ve got other things to do.” She gave him a long look. “But before I go…do you know where Iscariot has been holed up?”

  Capone shook his head, fat lips pursed. “No. Believe me, if I did, I’d tell you. He’s already causing problems with my—arrangements. The sooner you get rid of that bastard, the happier I’ll be. So get on it, doll. And don’t forget your things. They’re still in your room downstairs.”

  “One more thing,” she said, hand on the doorknob. “Leave Tony alone. Or I’ll be back. And I won’t come alone.” She gave him a cold smile.

  Capone muttered something unflattering, but she was already closing the door when he spoke. Probably just as well.

  + + +

  After Macey left Capone, carrying a single suitcase with the few items she never thought she’d want again, retrieved from her apartment, she had no other destination in mind. But she wasn’t ready to go back to The Silver Chalice.

  And so she walked—trudging through puddles and along the wet sidewalks, alongside shops closed because it was Sunday, churches that were empty because it was past noon, restaurants that were shuttered in favor of family dinners.

  It wasn’t until she’d walked for a long while—more than an hour, perhaps closer to two—that she realized where her feet had taken her.

  She paused, bringing herself up short, surprised—and yet not surprised—when she looked around with suddenly comprehending eyes. There was O’Brien’s Hardware, Shillelagh Market, and Garrick’s Butcher Shop. And down the street sat St. Martin’s Catholic Church, with another church steeple visible only a block away.

  And there—overlooking a small park that was deserted now because of the weather, its swings empty and dangling lightly in the breeze—sat Grady’s tall, narrow townhouse.

  Macey’s heart squeezed as she studied the familiar building from across the street. The largest window had its lace curtains pulled haphazardly wide, and the opening was a warm yellow rectangle in contrast to the dreary gray of rain and mist. From her vantage point, she looked into the house, hoping to see a figure moving inside. And though she knew it was inadvisable, she couldn’t keep from walking across the street, just to get closer.

  Seeking some shelter from the rain, she stood beneath a broad oak in the park, its branches stretching nearly to the brick wall of Grady’s house. The window facing her was the one on the side of the deep, narrow building that offered a view from the living room. Now she was in closer proximity to the beckoning window, and when she saw the figure moving around, her heart skittered a little.

  He was there. Wearing only a white shirt unbuttoned at the throat and, she assumed, trousers—though she couldn’t see below the waist from her angle. She couldn’t make out much of his face, but she knew how thick and soft his hair was, how beautiful and changing his blue-gray eyes were… How he’d cock his head and look at her with warmth and call her “lass.”

  How when she demonstrated her superhuman strength in an effort to show him why he couldn’t understand her life, why she was different from every other woman in the world, and lifted him up to shove him against the wall…his reaction was to kiss her with passion and love. Acceptance, and even joy.

  Her vision blurred and she blinked hard, dashing a hand over her eyes.

  He was safe from the undead when inside his home—and not only because of whatever it was that had upset Flora so strangely last night. Macey knew Grady had silver crosses set into the threshold of every window and doorway in the house. And he probably had wooden stakes somewhere as well, knowing him…

  All at once, the memory flashed through her mind, so sharply and strongly that she actually gasped in a breath of mist. The night Grady had spent in her apartment in Mrs. Gutchinson’s house—or, rather, the morning afterward—Macey awoke to find him half asleep in a chair, holding a stake in his hand.

  A stake he’d brought with him. A stake with which he’d come prepared.

  He’d known even then about the undead, somehow. But how had he known?

  Yes, he’d borrowed her book The Venators, which would have given him quite a bit of information about her family legacy—though much of its contents were inaccurate. But even from the beginning, from the very first time they met, he seemed to have known about the existence of the undead.

  The first time they’d spoken it was on a street corner, where he showed her a posted sign about a young woman who’d gone missing and her body was found. Jennie Fallon was her name. Some people wondered if it had been dogs or some animal who’d done the horrific mauling, and Macey never knew why she’d made that illogical, murmured comment about vampires. But she had.

  Instead of looking at her as if she were loony, Grady had looked at her with comprehension…and curiosity.

  Even then, he’d somehow known about vampires. Or, at least, he’d suspected their existence.

  And after that first conversation, he’d never given up—on her, on learning more about the undead, on fighting them, on supporting her as she took on her dangerous vocation. On being part of her life.

  I’d be there with you till the end, Macey, lass.

  Some of his last words to her, before she’d asked Wayren to obliterate his memory. That simple statement hung in her mind, making her woozy and warm and sad all at the same time.

  She hardly realized what she was doing until her feet were mounting the steps to his front door. And there it was in front of her: smooth oak, stained a dark toffee color, with a small window and a knocker in a Celtic knot design. Embedded in the threshold floor was, she knew, three silver crosses.

  Macey didn’t know what she was doing. Why she was here.

  But she lifted her hand, grasped the Celtic knot, and raised it and rapped three times.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  TEN

  ~ Wherein Our Intrepid Newshawk Reveals Some Tricks of the Trade ~

  Savina Eleaisa, known professionally as Sabrina Ellison, adventure photographer, had just finished a bath. Her hair was damp, and she’d donned a voluminous, warm housecoat and slippers. It was that kind of ugly, dreary day.

  She was just coming down from the second floor when she heard a knock.

  Grady was already on his way to answer the front door—it was his house, after all—as she made her way down the steps.

  “Who on earth would be out on a day like today?” she said as he looked through the window.

  He opened the door, and Savina glanced over as she walked by and saw nothing but a slight man holding a small suitcase, the rain pouring off his fedora. A salesman? Surely not on a Sunday. But he looked harmless enough—unless he was a vampire, of course; but even then, Grady would have to invite him in for any threat to be made—and the undead wouldn’t be able to cross over the silver crosses in the threshold anyway. Maybe it was someone from the Tribune.

  Savina hadn’t even taken a seat on the sofa in the living room when Grady returned, more quickly than she had expected.

  “Who was that?” she asked, moving a jumble of handcuffs and padlocks in order to sit down. Not pillows or even newspapers on Jameson Grady’s divan, but locks and cuffs. She shook her head in amusement. The assortment reminded her of Liam Stoker, a brilliant inventor who designed
weapons and gadgets for some of the Venators. He was always carrying an assortment of mechanical parts around with him. They clinked and rattled in his pockets.

  “I’m not quite certain,” Grady replied as he passed through into the kitchen.

  Savina shrugged and curled up into a corner of the sofa, trying not to think about Max. It was good of Grady—beyond good—to offer his hospitality while they were here.

  And even though Grady had given up his larger bedroom on the second floor to both of them, Max had hardly been here to share it with her since they’d arrived.

  She shivered, suddenly miserable and lonely. And perhaps a little apprehensive. It wasn’t because of Grady; he was such a nice man, so accommodating and charming, and not the least bit awkward about the amount of time Savina was spending at his home—safely tucked away, as Max put it—while he was…doing what he had to do.

  Perhaps she shouldn’t have come to Chicago after all. But Max had been deliciously persuasive, and she, like a lovelorn fool, had acquiesced.

  Of course, Savina was partly at fault for the tension in their relationship, but things simply hadn’t been the same between them since the events of last Christmas. Or, rather, since he’d left her, three Christmases ago, and fate had thrown them back together just this past December at a secluded estate in England.

  Neither of them had expected to see the other there—hell, as far as Savina knew, Max could have been dead, for all she’d heard from the man with whom she’d been lovers for more than a year.

  And that, my friend, is the cause for your entire emotional turmoil. She couldn’t trust him with her heart any more.

  True, their unexpected reunion had been emotional, and Max had groveled—as well he should have—but.

  Savina wasn’t certain anything had changed: whether he’d gotten over the reason he’d run away from her—no, he’d run from their relationship, not Savina. That was a point he’d at least been clear on: it wasn’t her, it was him.

  Right.

  “Do you want some tea?” Grady called from the kitchen. His voice drew Savina from the thoughts she’d been cycling through over and over for months. “Or something else?”