Roaring Dawn: Macey Book 3 (The Gardella Vampire Hunters 10) (2 page)

“Ah!” he exclaimed, becoming still except for the hand moving beneath the surface. “I think…” He made a sound of satisfaction and dragged his arm from the thick, clinging substance.

“Did you find it?” Pesaro’s voice was unusually enthusiastic.

“I did.” Sebastian rose with great alacrity, displaying his prize in a great flourish. The large emerald stone glinted in the lantern light. It was a square, about the size of two female thumbs side by side, and he made certain whoever was watching could see it.

“Excellent. Now let us take our—” Pesaro broke off, spinning around as the first attacker appeared as if from nowhere, launching himself from behind a large boulder.

No sooner had he landed, flatfooted and lashing out at Pesaro with a long-nailed hand, than five others emerged from behind various bushes and stones.

Sebastian flew into action, his greatcoat swirling as he flung it aside—the better to keep from being grabbed by the hem and tossed into the pool—and slammed his stake into the heart of the first undead who got close to him.

The attacker froze, his eyes wide and shocked, then his entire being exploded into silvery ash that fluttered to the ground like moonlit confetti as Sebastian turned to meet his next threat.

As he did, the green stone flew from his hand in a great, shining arc and tumbled to the ground. Cursing, Sebastian lunged for it, lost his balance, and was knocked to his knees.

He scrambled toward the stone, but the vampire had already snatched it up with a great cry of triumph.

“Max!” Sebastian shouted, pulling to his feet much more slowly than usual as the undead bolted away. “Stop him!”

Pesaro spun and whipped his stake, sending it spinning through the air. It lodged not in the heart of the escaping vampire, but harmlessly in the back of his shoulder.

Pesaro cursed and dug a second stake from his boot as he turned to meet the attack of two more undead, just as Sebastian whirled and caught a fifth one with his shoulder, sending him flying toward—and into—the pool.

The result was not a pretty sight. And it didn’t smell very pleasant either.

By the time Sebastian made his complete circle and turned back around, the space was quiet and empty. Undead dust wafted prettily to the ground—all that was left of the vampires except the one who stole the emerald.

Pesaro stood there holding a stake, looking grimmer than usual despite the fact that everything had gone as planned. “Bloody
damned
hell,” he groused.

Sebastian checked his pocket to make certain the black pyramidal stone he’d slipped from the pool was still safely in place. “You missed.”

Pesaro cast him a withering glance. “Me?
Miss?
Don’t be ridiculous—” Then he caught himself, and a flicker of humor twitched his lips when he realized his companion was merely playing the role. “But that was my favorite stake.”

Sebastian climbed on his horse and reached over to take up the lantern, but Pesaro had already grabbed it. “All set?” he asked, for his companion hadn’t yet gathered up his reins to mount.

Max seemed to be searching the ground, using the lantern’s glow as assistant. “Thought he might have dropped it,” he muttered, kicking a stone aside as if to look under it, then starting along the path the escapee had taken. “Damn it to hell. What does a bloody vampire want with a damned stake embedded in his shoulder?”

“Blast it, Pesaro, you can get another silver-tipped stake,” Sebastian told him, shaking his head. Sometimes the man was utterly incomprehensible.

“I know that,” Pesaro said, still looking around, his expression growing darker. “But that was the one Victoria gave me, and if I don’t get it back, she’ll notice. That woman notices
every
damn thing. And if
she
doesn’t notice, Bella will. Christ.” His voice was unusually tense.

“So the biggest problem is not that you’ve lost the stake she gave you, but that you’re going to have to tell her
how
you lost it.” Sebastian howled with delight, feeling free for the first time in years.

Pesaro looked up at him, something like apprehension in his eyes. “When she finds out we didn’t bring her, there’ll be hell to pay. For both of us.”

Sebastian couldn’t stop laughing. It was so very rare that Max Pesaro was off his game. “You’re the one who married her,
mon ami
. The spoils of war are all yours.”

“Go to the devil, Vioget.”

ONE

~ A Dark New World ~

May 1926

Chicago

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.