Roaring Dawn: Macey Book 3 (The Gardella Vampire Hunters 10) (7 page)

Macey was relieved to make her escape.
That wasn’t too bad
. Her pulse was still a little fast, and her belly a little nauseated, but that would soon settle. She’d leave Grady to his stunning,
older
lady photographer and go off to find the mayor.

At least his
older
lady photographer wouldn’t get him mauled by a vampire. Or worse.

And with that thought, Macey realized with a mixture of relief and disappointment that she didn’t feel any indication the undead were present tonight.

She turned to take a flute of carbonated cider from the tray of a passing waiter—desperately wishing for something stronger—when she caught sight of another familiar figure.

Al Capone appeared to notice her at the same moment, for their eyes met and she recognized a flare of surprise in his gaze. He looked away quickly, then turned to speak to someone next to him without even nodding in her direction.

Macey wasn’t particularly fond of Capone for several reasons that included his business ethics—or lack thereof—as well as the fact that he’d fairly kept her on house arrest for six months, manipulating her into being his personal bodyguard against the undead. Why he’d felt the need to have her watching his back when he was a Venator himself had been a source of anger for her, but he’d made it clear if she didn’t help him, he’d use his power to disrupt the lives of her friends and colleagues…“disrupt” being a euphemism for much stronger actions that likely would have involved Tommy guns or the like.

After a particular crisis, Macey had finally realized how foolish she was being, allowing him to have such influence on her life, and told him to take a hike. Ever since then, she’d been admittedly concerned that Capone might not have gone very quietly into that good night—to quote the old poem—and was somehow planning his revenge, and would turn up at a most inopportune time.

But instead of approaching her with his haughty ways, Capone seemed unwilling to even acknowledge her. Considering the fact that there’d been photographs of the two of them together splashed over the front page of the
Tribune
, Macey found that disturbing as well as curious.

So she made her way through the strolling exhibit attendees directly to Capone’s side.

“Good evening, Snorky,” she said with a broad smile, though she kept her gaze hard. “You’re looking fine tonight. Carbonara on the menu tonight at the Lexington, was it?”

Capone actually glanced down at his tie to see if there was a spot to which she’d been referring, then snapped his face back up to look at her. “Evenin’, doll,” he said. His beady, dark eyes were darting around the room behind her, as if watching for something. “I hear your friend Vioget has…er…gone on to greener pastures.”

“That’s right,” she replied. “You missed all of the excitement.”

“That’s just the way I like it nowadays,” he said, easing back from her. “Nice seeing you, doll,” he added. “I got some biz-ness to attend to over there.”

“I left a few things at the Lexington,” she told him, wondering why he was in such a hurry to make off. Usually Capone took every opportunity to flaunt his wealth, clothing, or the weapon beneath his coat—not to mention the fact that he virtually controlled half the city—to anyone with whom he spoke. “I hope you kept them for me.”

“Yes, yes, of course, doll. You send for ’em any time you want. The clothes and stuff are all dere. Enjoy the exhibit,” he said, then slipped off into the crowd.

Macey watched him go, more than a little disconcerted at his abrupt departure. Yet whatever had gotten into him, she didn’t mind. At least it appeared she wouldn’t have to worry about Al Capone any longer.

As she wove through the displays, Macey barely glanced at the photos. Nevertheless, she noticed a close-up of a tiger among the grasses of a savannah, the portrait of a cobra, sitting up with its “wings” spread and vampire-like fangs bared so that one could actually see
inside
its gullet, and a particularly breathtaking shot that framed Westminster Abbey on a moonlit night, taken from what appeared to be the crow’s nest of a ship on the Thames. There were African villages, a stormy Mediterranean crashing against a ruined shipwreck, and a group of chubby, naked children playing in a mud puddle.

But there was one photograph that caught her notice—a picture she found herself stopping to give a full examination.

In contrast to the other dangerous and exciting images, the subject of this one bordered on the mundane. It was also tucked into a corner of the exhibit, as if it were an afterthought. Definitely not one meant to attract attention.

The frame was dominated by a man, sitting at a desk. He was looking down at a paper on which he was writing, one hand holding the stationery in place. Tension emanated from his body. The man had thick, dark hair, and strong but elegant hands with well-tended fingernails. Those were the only visible features, other than the hint of dark brows, nose, and mouth. He was wearing a shirt, sleeves rolled halfway up a muscular forearm, and a button was loose at the neck. He didn’t look like a simple clerk, or even a businessman. He looked powerful, despite an everyday pose with his face averted in something like submission.

Or determination.

Macey didn’t know what it was about the photograph that caught her attention, but something about it was utterly compelling. The man seemed strangely familiar to her, and the entire, simple scene was nevertheless fraught with emotion. It was a juxtaposition of power, determination, and regret—and it all came through, somehow, via the composition, the lighting, and the way his hands held the paper and pen. Perhaps he was writing a difficult letter.

She didn’t know why that crossed her mind, but when she saw the title of the photograph, printed on a card beneath, her brows lifted.
A Letter Long Due
. And the photographer was none other than S. Ellison again.

She looked closely at the paper, trying to discern the words scrawled on it. Of course, they were upside down and shadowy from the viewpoint of the camera, but the first line looked as if it read “Dear…” something with a capital M, and a descender at the end. Mary? Macey frowned, and her pulse gave a little jump when she looked closer. Huh. It could…geesh, it could just as easily be Macey as Mary. Which would be utterly unbelievable. Fanciful, really. She was reading too much into—

“I see you’ve found my favorite of the bunch.”

Macey nearly leaped out of her skin when the soft, accented voice spoke so close to her. For a Venator, she certainly was off her game tonight. She sure as hell hoped she wouldn’t be so jumpy if an undead showed up…

Macey turned to find Sabrina Ellison—sans Grady, thank you, God—looking at her with those exotic dark eyes.

“It’s… It looks very emotional. And yet it’s such a simple, everyday image,” Macey managed to say. “Nevertheless, I found it quite moving.”

“You appear to be the only one to have noticed him among the pyramids, cobras, tigers, and the aerial views.” The woman gave a little laugh. “Forgive me, but I’ve already forgotten your name, and we met just moments ago.”

Macey hadn’t actually given her name, and surely that was merely the woman’s polite way of asking. “Macey Denton. It’s a pleasure to meet you. You’re very talented…and very courageous.”

Sabrina Ellison’s eyes glinted with something like satisfaction. “Thank you, Macey. Oh, dear.” She seemed to catch herself. “I hope you don’t mind the informality—please, do call me Sabrina.”

“Thank you, I will,” Macey replied politely, but she felt strange that a woman she’d just met and would never see again should be so eager to talk to her as if they were chums.

Maybe it was simply because they were both women—surely it couldn’t be easy being a woman in a vocation that was obviously dominated by men. Her smile became more genuine. The two of them had that in common, at least, though Sabrina Ellison would have no way of knowing it.

“It really is one of my favorites, and taking it was very nearly as life-threatening as shooting the one of the cobra,” Sabrina said, her eyes focused on the photograph.

“Why was that?” Macey asked in surprise.

Sabrina smiled sadly, still watching the man in the picture. “Because the subject is far more dangerous, and he didn’t know I was taking the shot. If he had…I fear I would have been better off facing a stirred-up cobra than that man when he was truly angry.”

There was something in her voice that was almost wistful. Sad and strained; Macey felt a sudden and unusual affinity with this woman she didn’t know.

“Have you ever loved a man it was safer not to?” Sabrina asked.

Macey blinked. Did this woman somehow
know
what was inside her mind? But she heard herself responding, nonetheless—and honestly, too. “Yes.”

Still staring at the photograph, its creator gave a brief nod. Then she looked over at Macey with a short, chagrined laugh. “I apologize. I don’t know why I even said that—I don’t usually pry into other people’s business, especially their private business.”

“Don’t mention it.” Macey wasn’t sure whether she should flee from the side of this unusual, rawly honest yet magnetic woman, or reach out to pat her arm in comfort.

She might have continued the conversation, but at that moment, a light, eerie chill scuttled across the back of her neck, fingering lightly along her shoulders, lifting the fine hair that grew there.

The undead were here.

At last.

FIVE

~ Stained Dresses and Hasty Exits ~

“Please excuse me,
Miss—er, Sabrina,” Macey said, even as she turned to walk away. “I need to attend to something.”

“Of course.”

Macey felt Sabrina’s curious eyes on her as she slipped off, making her way through the crowd. Tonight she had a stake slipped in each garter, both high on her thighs, as well as the same silver cross that had burned Nicholas Iscariot tucked beneath her gown. She considered it her good-luck charm, even though it was bulky and the size of her palm.

It would give her great pleasure to inflict a matching scar on Iscariot’s other cheek.

Macey measured and followed the unpleasant sensation that settled over the back of her neck, and it led her toward the opposite side of the hall, the chill growing stronger and eerier as she made her way there. It occurred to her that perhaps that was part of the reason Capone had drifted off so quickly. Could he have somehow aligned himself with the undead, now that Macey had rid herself of him?

Galvanized by the thought, she moved swiftly between the people, dodging waiters and navigating around tables, all the while looking through the crowd to see if she could determine where or who was the undead…and if she could locate Capone.

She wasn’t paying attention, and all of a sudden, Macey walked into a solid figure. One with which she was intimately familiar.

Startled, she looked up at Grady for a frozen moment, then removed her hand from where it had accidentally landed on his jacket and muttered an apology before ducking off into the crowd.

“Miss?” she heard him call after her. “Miss, is everything all right?”

She ignored him, ignored the pounding of her heart, and the way that silly incident had put her off, and made a beeline toward a cluster of distinguished-looking gentlemen standing in a tight group.

There.
The vampire was there, among the men.

And so, Macey realized, was Mayor Dever. But not Al Capone.

As far as she could tell, Iscariot wasn’t there either. She felt a little shimmer of relief that the slick-haired “baron” hadn’t deigned to attend a photography exhibit.

And that she wouldn’t have to face him, at least today.

Then her jaw set, and she felt her lips stretch into a grim smile. She’d have a chat with whatever undead
had
attended tonight. She knew how to be persuasive—thanks in part to Chas—and surely she would be able to find out where the baron was staying.

As Macey approached, she considered several ways to interrupt the close-knit group. Blunt and direct, ingenue-ish and confused, or coquettish and charming—any of the three would likely work.

But as it turned out, she was saved from having to make the decision. For when she was only a few steps away, the group parted like a theater curtain to reveal a tall, slender woman sitting on a chair among the men.

She had carrot-colored hair and dead-white skin, except for the freckles sprinkled over it. Her frock was a shimmering display of sunny yellow, gold, and clear crystal beads in large diamond-shaped patterns.

“Macey, darling,” said the woman as one of the fawning gentlemen helped her to her feet. “What a pleasant surprise.” She smiled, and her eyes glowed red for a moment before her vampirism was quickly banked.

“Flora,” Macey said, successfully hiding the shock at seeing her former best friend. “What are you doing here?”

“Why, the same as you, I assume—looking at a photography exhibit.” Flora cast a sly glance around the circle of her admirers—including Mayor Dever—and smiled
very
warmly at them. “It’s a very enjoyable event, I must say.”

When Flora’s admirers grinned back giddily, Macey realized the gentlemen companions were under Flora’s thrall. Hanging on her every word, and she was controlling them with such ease.

The woman had become surprisingly powerful and confident in the last year.

Apprehension skittered through Macey like cat claws on a wooden floor. What was Flora up to? Any answer that came to mind was definitely not pleasant.

“It is a wonderful exhibit,” Macey replied casually. “Do you have a moment? I’d like to speak with you, privately.”

Flora smiled like Lewis Carroll’s Cheshire Cat. “I’m afraid I’m a little busy here right now, darling Macey. Perhaps we can catch up some other time?” Once again, she turned her attention to the men clustered around her, sweeping her gaze over one after the other. Macey actually saw each give a subtle shiver as the vampiress’s thrall connected with his eyes.

“Very well,” Macey replied, giving her old friend a hard look—but a brief one; she knew better than to allow Flora to capture her gaze. “We can catch up at another time. But I do have some business with Mayor Dever.” She directed this last to the man in question.