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

by Colleen Gleason

  “As I said, not a pleasant experience. If it weren’t for Narcise…” Chas stopped, shook his head, then seemed to collect himself. “But even during that hazy time, I remember: there was a skull, in his chamber. It had two ruby eyes—looked as if there were gemstones set in the sockets. They were easy to stare at and focus on, because one of them glinted in the candlelight. And there was a dagger blade protruding from between the skull’s teeth.”

  “Like a tongue,” Macey said.

  “Sounds right,” Max agreed. “But now we have to put our hands on it—I don’t suppose you have any idea where to find it now?”

  Chas shook his head once more. “Not a chance. Moldavi’s long gone from that hideaway beneath Paris—it was in 1804 when all this happened, just after Napoleon was crowned emperor—and when I…left, Moldavi had been imprisoned by Narcise and Giordan Cale.”

  “Moldavi was a vampire? They didn’t stake him?” asked Macey.

  “He was a Dracule vampire—different from the ones spawned through Judas Iscariot, though there are many similarities—and no, Narcise chose not to kill him. She had her reasons. Even so, who knows what happened to the contents of his hideaway. Surely they’re long gone, and his underground lair since demolished.”

  Macey drew in a deep breath. “I suppose we’ll have to keep looking for a different way to destroy the pyramid—if there even is another way.”

  “The only one who might know where to find it is Wayren,” Chas said. “And since she doesn’t seem to show up when I need her, perhaps our vaunted summas could put in a request for some assistance?”

  Macey glanced at Max to see his reaction to this churlishness, but he was merely looking toward the door with an odd smile.

  “Ah, Wayren,” he said. “You’ve arrived just in time to put the grousing Woodmore here out of his misery.”

  The rest of them turned to see the slender, pale-visaged woman moving across the room. She seemed to glide, but surely that was only because the movements of her feet were hidden by the medieval-style gown she wore, its hem brushing the floor. Her wheat-blond hair hung long and loose except for two narrow braids clasped in decorative metal tubes that hung alongside her beatific face. A delicate chain belt encircled her waist, and suspended from it was a ring of keys that seemed much too heavy for it. She carried a bulky satchel.

  “Chas? You’re grousing and miserable? Is this something new?” she asked, though there was a subtle twinkle in her eyes.

  They all laughed—even Chas—for somehow, despite the gravity of the situation, Wayren’s presence always lifted the mood closer to peacefulness and optimism.

  “It’s good to see you, Wayren,” Macey said with emotion. She realized with a start that her eyes were stinging. For the first time in days, she felt as if everything she had to face might be manageable after all.

  Wayren seemed to sense that she was deeply unsettled, for she took the seat next to her and closed slender fingers over Macey’s hand. Immediately, a flush of warmth and peace shuttled through her.

  “It’s very good to see you too, Macey. All of you,” she added. “Even those whom I’ve seen very recently.”

  Her smile seemed directed at Max, who folded his arms over his middle as if to ward off any further comments or questions. “Your timing is impeccable as usual, Wayren.” He went on to explain what Chas had learned about the ruby-eyed skull’s tongue, and the problem they faced in locating it.

  “Not to mention the fact that we’re sitting here on our damn—on our arses, waiting for Iscariot to make his next move. It’s da—it’s bloody frustrating.”

  “I see.” Wayren looked grave—as grave as Macey had ever seen her, and that made some of her optimism and hope cool. “Well, I may be able to assist in the manner of locating the dagger in question. That is, if you’re willing, Chas.”

  “Willing?” he asked warily. Then his face changed into one of horror and chagrin. “You don’t mean you’d take me back there. Can you do that?”

  Wayren merely looked at him, her expression inscrutable.

  “Of course you can do that,” he muttered. “You can’t tell us who the dauntless one is, you can’t destroy Iscariot—or the entire race of vampires, for that matter—but you can bend the rules of time and ship people back and forth through the decades like they’re on a da—on a blasted ferry.” He sighed and settled his large hands flat on the counter, ready to push to his feet. “I suppose we’d better be off, then. At least I’ll be able to get a good Armagnac in 1803 Paris.”

  “Legally, anyway,” Max agreed. He stood, holding up a hand for pause. “Right then, Woodmore. It’s not strictly necessary for you to go. There are other options—including putting the pyramid in the church here, and also taking it back to the Consilium. I’ll be happy to see to it myself when this is over.”

  “That’s assuming it is over—and we all survive whatever ‘it’ is,” Chas replied. “Of course I’ll go. It’ll be safe in the Consilium, no doubt, but it’ll be even safer if it’s obliterated. I’m the only one who knows where the ‘curved tongue of the ruby-eyed skull’ is—or was—and it’s the least I can do, since I’m the one who— Well, it’s because of me we’re in this fix.”

  “It’s because of Sebastian Vioget that we’re in this fix,” Macey said firmly. “He should have sent it to the Consilium.” Even as she said it, she wondered what precisely the Consilium was. It sounded…fascinating.

  “As I said,” Wayren began, “if you’re willing, Chas, you are uniquely qualified to handle this task. How coincidental that you’re here, and you alone have the memory of the location of this particular object—precisely at the time it’s needed?” She looked at him, and before Macey’s eyes, all of his tension and disgruntlement seemed to wilt.

  “How coincidental indeed,” he murmured. “I suppose one could call it that. Very well, then. Let us be off.” He glanced around the table, a wry smile twisting his lips. “I’ll bring back a bottle of the good stuff.”

  “Better make that two—you owe me a replacement,” Temple told him.

  Chas gave a short bark of laughter, but he did, for the first time in Macey’s memory, seem quietly at peace.

  “Be safe,” she said, standing to give him a kiss.

  He slipped his arm around her waist to pull her up for a good, thorough one—mostly just to bother Max, she figured—and then released her.

  “I’ll be back”—he glanced at Wayren, who, as usual, was noncommittal—“as soon as possible.”

  Macey had a strange feeling as she watched him follow the chatelaine from the room…as if she might never see him again. Or if she did, that it would be very different when he returned.

  When she turned back, she found Max’s eyes fastened on her.

  “Are you in love with Woodmore?” he asked abruptly.

  “No. Not that it’s any of your business,” she replied coolly. “Just like it wasn’t any of your business to talk to Capone.”

  “Good.” He set his jaw, shifted it a little, and seemed to be considering what to say next when the interior door slammed open to reveal Aunt Cookie.

  She rushed in, her face filled with horror. “The Trib just put out a special edition, and you need to see it!”

  Max was closest, and he swiped the paper from her hand. He didn’t even need to read it aloud, for the headline was so large it took up the entire top half of the front page and they all could see it: Man Takes Students Hostage, Threatens to Kill if Demands Are Not Met.

  “Dear God,” Macey breathed, standing. All warmth drained from her body. “That’s it. It has to be.”

  Temple picked up the note from Flora and read it. “‘For every hour you delay, a very pretty price will be paid. One by one by one.’”

  “Let’s go,” Max said, and slung his crossbow over his shoulder.

  + + +

  Grady slowly became aware of his surroundings, yet had the presence of mind to refrain from opening his eyes immediately.

  Carefully, he as
sessed the condition of his body: throbbing with pain, weak, sticky with blood and sweat, yet nevertheless fully intact. That was good.

  The ground—a linoleum floor—was hard beneath him. That was very good; he was no longer suspended from the ceiling. And—a bonus—though his wrists were still bound and screaming with rope burns, they were in front of him.

  Blood still oozed from wounds on several areas of his body—not so good. The side of his torso and hip that rested on the floor was in agony from the pressure against the injuries there, but he dared not move and draw attention to himself quite yet.

  He vaguely remembered hearing Iscariot calling off his minions: “He must stay alive for now.” That, too, was fortunate, for they could easily have finished him off. Or worse.

  After this initial assessment, Grady waited still longer to open his eyes, taking a moment to listen to everything going on around him, though he was also working on the ropes around his wrists.

  There seemed to be indistinct conversation to his left—likely Iscariot and his comrades—and to the right, he thought he discerned soft sobbing and sniffling. His battered body tensed, and horror flooded him as he was reminded precisely what fate awaited the poor young girls if he didn’t find a way to get them out of here. They must be terrified.

  There were no other sounds to give him a clue as to how much time had passed or any other information, but as he was about to open his eyes just enough to see through a slit, a clock struck from somewhere in the building. One chime.

  One o’clock. Good, then. He’d been out for less than an hour.

  When he finally opened his eyes, just enough to see, Grady was delighted to discover that he was huddled up, facing the wall on one side of the dining room. That meant he could easily release his ties without anyone noticing—unless someone was standing guard right next to him. The place was lit only by four electric sconces, two at each end of the rectangular space, which left him between the pools of light and somewhat shadowed. Excellent.

  Still working the ropes that imprisoned his wrists, he covertly looked around, even slightly lifting his head—oh God, that hurt worse than the morning after too much whiskey—to ensure no one was nearby watching him.

  When he moved his head, tilting it back slowly and carefully by sliding it along the floor and twisting ever so slightly to see “above” him, he saw Iscariot with three of his vampires at that end of the room. They were sitting around, talking. He wondered what they were waiting for, then saw the girl slumped on the floor next to them. The dark wound glistened at her throat.

  Oh no.

  That realization galvanized him to work more efficiently—as if he needed the motivation—and moments later, with the help of his teeth working at the knots, he’d freed his wrists.

  The rush of blood to his hands caused familiar, painful prickles, but Grady was used to them, and he was already subtly drawing his knees up close so he could work on his ankles. Constantly vigilant for a change in the conversation or a hint that someone had noticed his movements, he worked as quickly as possible, his movements partially hidden because he faced the wall.

  As he freed himself, he considered his options. He’d already half formed a plan, but now that the time had come, the details needed to be worked out. Along the wall he faced, he could see two of the four tall windows that had been covered by bedsheets. One was only a yard away, slightly to his left. The other was in the opposite direction, closer to the hostages—which, he decided, was a very good thing.

  He’d have to move quickly—hopefully his battered body would cooperate—and he’d have only one good chance. It was one o’clock, so the sun would be high and bright—thank God the rain had stopped—and as the building had no trees to block its rays, the light would spill into the room like a gift.

  He stealthily removed the heel from his right shoe and collected the four vials into his hand, still listening carefully for any change in conversation. The fact that Iscariot and his cohorts seemed to be merely biding time troubled Grady. What were they waiting for?

  Several answers came to mind, and he didn’t like any of them. So it was time to put his plan into action and hope for the best.

  He curled and uncurled his toes and fingers, flexed his feet, wrists, arms—gritting his teeth against the thudding pain—and hoped he wouldn’t faint from blood loss when he finally flew to his feet.

  All right. Time to move.

  He had his eye on the lower edge of the nearest sheet, the one hanging from the window between him and the vampires. It was three feet away, and reached nearly to the floor.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  Grady launched himself toward the lower hem of the sheet in a sort of low leapfrog movement. When he caught it, just as someone shouted, he huffed with relief and pulled.

  The sheet caught—stuck—for just a moment, but Grady was strong and fast, and the fabric tore…and the sheet fell away.

  A beautiful, long pool of light spilled into the room, making a wide stripe nearly across the full width. But Grady didn’t stop there—he clambered to his feet and stumbled toward the hostages, half falling toward them and the sheet that hung on the wall behind the group.

  The vampires had reacted immediately, and though there was only a narrow passage, it wouldn’t be difficult for them to skirt the far edge of the block of sun—Grady had miscalculated, for he’d hoped the light would have cut completely across the room—but even as he realized this, he was already diving for the other sheet. However, his legs still weren’t fully cooperating, and he missed, slamming into the wall as he tried to catch himself.

  One of the older girls seemed to realize what was going on, and she lunged over to tear the sheet from the window with the help from another girl. More sunshine streamed into the room, bathing most of the group of hostages—and Grady himself—in a sea of light as he pulled to his feet, using the wall for support.

  “Out the window,” he ordered the nearest girl as he fumbled with the vials he’d stuck in his pocket. His hands were shaking and his knees could hardly support him, and he leaned against the wall, panting, bleeding, and trembling.

  Just as he managed to get one small tube open, an undead launched himself at one of the hostages who was at the edge of the light. She screamed as the vampire grabbed her shadowed leg and dragged her toward him.

  Grady whirled, flinging the contents of the vial—holy water, of course—at the vampire as he heard the sound of the window shattering. Good, yes, good. Go!

  The vampire he’d doused screamed and staggered away as the awful smell of burned, dead flesh sizzled in the room, and the girl he’d grabbed scrambled back into the sanctuary of sunlight. As Grady reached into his pocket to pull out the thick pencil he had in there, he glanced over to see that the students were clambering out the window as quickly as possible.

  Lightheaded, he unscrewed the eraser end of his pencil to reveal a sharpened point of wood instead of lead—his version of a stake—and thumbed off the cork from another of the vials.

  Three vampires were dragging as many of the girls as they could safely reach into the shadows. Grady splashed holy water on the one nearest him, and when the woman shrieked with pain, he lunged toward her, makeshift stake raised.

  They fell to the ground, the vampiress still screaming in pain, and he managed, somehow, to drive the slender but powerful pike into her sternum.

  It was easier than he’d imagined, for the bone seemed to just give way as soon as the wooden point hit it, and he forced his protesting muscles to shove it all the way through, into the heart.

  The woman froze, her mouth crumpled in horror and eyes wide with shock, then all at once—she was gone. Grady collapsed onto the floor as what was left of her body exploded into his face.

  Coughing and spitting out the disgusting ash, half blinded by the gritty dust, he tried to scramble to his feet. Just as he began to push up, a pair of shiny black shoes appeared on the floor in front of his eyes.


  “Nicely done,” said Nicholas Iscariot as he stepped, hard, onto Grady’s left, stake-bearing hand. He pressed all his weight down onto it, and Grady smothered a groan of pain as his fingers released the weapon. Nevertheless, he forced himself to look up at his captor—yet still avoid the enthralling gaze that burned there. “But your efforts were in vain, my brave sir.”

  “The girls…are…safe,” he managed to say, fumbling beneath his belly where he still held two vials of holy water.

  “That might be the case…but you are not. And that, as it happens, has been my intent all along.”

  Grady blinked, trying to focus, but Iscariot’s strong, sharp-nailed hands reached down and grabbed him by the shirt, yanking him off the ground—but not before the vampire ground his foot into his hand one last time. Grady felt a sharp, painful pop! at his shoulder before his hand slid free from beneath the weight on it, and another one at his wrist, and he bit back a scream of pain. But he’d managed to unleash one more vial of holy water, and he held it close to his body as he was whooshed off the floor.

  The world tilted and spun, and the ugly green glow at Iscariot’s chest caught his attention: hypnotic and evil. Grady swung his arm out in a wide arc and poured holy water up and over the vampire lord’s face.

  Iscariot cried out, but did not release him. Instead, his irises burning more vibrantly than ever, the blue ring around them cold and furious, he bared his fangs and said, “By the devil, you are dead.”

  He whipped around fast and hard and slammed Grady into the wall, hand cupping him beneath the chin. Then he drove his lethal nails into his shoulder, ripping downward. Grady felt fabric and flesh tear, and the eruption of blood bursting from his body.

  His vision swam, but he managed to glance over at the hostages. He saw that the sunny area was empty. He closed his eyes and let go.

  It was over.