Roaring Shadows: Macey Book 2 (The Gardella Vampire Hunters 8) (25 page)

She grappled for a way to make him understand, because the fear…the fear was simply too much for her to bear. It was bad enough that he was a target because of her, but now he wanted to hunt them down? Fight them on his own? Go out and
search
for them?

And he wanted to be with her too. He had some sort of crazy notion they could be fighting together. Like a team? Not on her life.

She had to make him understand. He wasn’t going to be a Felicia. She wasn’t going to be her father.

“I can’t,” she said harshly. “Do this. Be here. And—and—I’m with Chas now. You were right—he’s more than just a friend.” She kept her expression blank and cold because, by God, she had to make him understand. She had to
repel
him. “I got what I came for, thank you.” She flipped up the end of the rosary, then tucked it back inside her neckline. “I promise you, I’ll take care of the ones who did that to your uncle. But you stay the hell out of it, Grady. You stay the hell away from me and them.”

“Or what?” he said. His eyes blazed and he was in her face again, close enough to grab her. “You’ll sic your boyfriend on me?”

Oh, bitter. Oh, yes, the bitterness, the hurt was there.

Good. She was sorry for it, but it was necessary. She managed to keep the tears from coming, managed to keep her voice steady as a rock. “Just let us handle this, Grady. We know what we’re doing. You stick with picking locks and capturing—you know, mortal criminals—and writing newspaper stories.”

He jolted as if she’d struck him, but she wasn’t stopping, wasn’t allowing any moment for remorse. But when she got to the door—this time, he didn’t try to stop her—she paused and looked back at him. “About Linwood…use salted holy water on his wounds. That should help.”

And then, no longer able to keep up her facade, she ducked out the door and fled down the street.

Macey didn’t know where to go, so she went to Chas’s.

After all, she was “with Chas” now. Might as well make it true.

That sort of gritty anger and a dull reality fueled her now. She ignored the option of going to the front door—if Chas was there, he was probably sleeping, as it was late morning.

Instead, she went around to the back alley side of the building and jumped high enough to pull down the rickety metal fire escape that led to his window. It clanged and creaked as she wrestled it into place, glad to have something physical to do to expend her pent-up emotions.

She was exhausted, having not slept, and with every bit of the roller coaster of emotions she’d been on—like the amusement park ride she’d read about on Coney Island in New York—Macey felt as if she were about to explode.

When the fire escape ladder was in place, she clambered up quickly, pulled it up after her, and peered through the window into the living room. No sign of life; no surprise. The window was stuck, but she was strong enough to yank the damn thing up—apparently he normally used the door—and she climbed in. As she turned to close the window, she noticed that a small silver cross had been nailed above it. And then, feeling the stuffy heat of the apartment, she decided not to close it after all.

And that was when she smelled blood.

Lots of blood.

TWENTY-THREE

~ A Severe Miscalculation ~

Macey’s heart surged into her throat.
And then she saw the trail…smears along the floor and the short hall to the back of the apartment.

“Chas?” she called, dashing through the empty living room to the single, small bedroom in the back. “Chas?”

The smell of blood was stronger back here, and suddenly terrified by what she’d find, Macey paused for a brief prayer before she pushed the door open.

He was there, huddled, curled up on the bed. Blood stained the sheets and what part of his clothes she could see. He was breathing—hard, heavily; she could see his torso lurching as she rushed over to him.

“Oh, God, Chas!” Macey turned him carefully onto his back, tensing when he groaned with pain, and sucked in a horrified breath.
Oh my God.
“Chas!”

He was…a mess. Fresh blood, dried blood, jagged wounds, neat slices. But he moaned, and his eyes fluttered.

“Fuck…you…” he managed to say. His gaze was glazed and feverish, but there was no mistaking the fury in his expression and in the two syllables he managed to breathe.

I should have gone with him last night. Oh God, what have I done?

She had no time to waste. And who cared if he was angry with her—he had a right to be—she had to help him. And quickly.

Macey stumbled away and out into the kitchenette. She tore through the cupboards and found two large Mason jars, still smelling slightly of whiskey. Collecting them under her arm, she pulled out a canister of salt—thank God he kept it on hand in quantity—and dropped it on the table.

Bolting out the door, she slammed it shut behind her and dashed across the courtyard to St. Anselm’s, all the while thankful that Chas had chosen a home right next to a church.

Noon mass was going on as she slipped inside—at least, she guessed that was what it was; people were in the pews and singing as the priest walked down the aisle—but Macey ignored the few people who turned back to look at her.

Instead, she found a large basin of holy water in the vestibule of the church and filled the Mason jars, then ran back to Chas’s apartment. Less than a minute later, she was back in his room with the jars of salted holy water.

“I’m sorry, Chas,” she said as she began to pour it generously over him, soaking his skin, clothes, and sheets.

He screamed, arching and twisting with agony as the water sizzled and steamed whenever it hit an open wound. He cursed her and cried, huddling into a ball in spite of himself—which required Macey to readjust him onto his back, tears of anguish spilling from her eyes as she forced him to continue the terrible pain. It was the only way—the only hope. He was so far gone, so injured and depleted of blood, that only a miracle could save him.

Chas shuddered, shook, even sobbed and cursed when she came back with the Mason jars refilled and dumped them on him a second time. He cried, “
Just let me goddamned
die”—but she ignored him and kept pouring, kept sobbing, kept her teeth gritted as she did one of the hardest things she’d ever had to do.

Finally, after dousing him the second time, she tottered into the living room and located his telephone. She called The Silver Chalice.

No sooner had she identified herself than Temple—who’d answered the phone—lit into her. “Where the hell are you? Where have you
been
?”

Macey finally got her to listen, and the woman calmed down enough to comprehend the seriousness of Chas’s situation. “You’re at his house? I’m coming there right away.” Though that was the only thing Temple said, Macey could hear the underlying fury and blame in her words.

This was all her fault. All of it—Linwood, Chas, and whatever else had happened.

Blind with unshed tears, shaky with uncertainty and exhaustion, Macey found clean towels and blankets and brought them, along with warm-water-soaked cloths to clean him up as well as she could. She cut away his clothes, dabbing at his injuries as carefully as possible without moving him. He was panting, still curled on his side in agony, rigid against the torture.

But when she tried to roll him onto his back again to get the front, he cried out. His eyes bolted open, blazing with pain.

“My…god…damned…arm,” he said furiously. “
Stop!
” Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he went limp.

Choking back tears—for she’d never seen such agony in his face—she took a better look at the arm he seemed to favor. Her empty stomach pitched, for the jagged edge of his humerus partially protruded from the skin of his bicep. Until she began washing away the blood, she hadn’t realized the extent of the injury.

“Oh my God,” she breathed. Venator or no, it was no wonder he wanted to die. How long had he been lying here like this? And how in the
hell
had he gotten himself here anyway? And why—why oh why—had he not gone to the hospital?

“I’m calling an ambulance. You need a doctor,” she said, even though he was unconscious and couldn’t hear her.

Except he could. A hand closed tightly over her thigh. It was clearly a negative response, and his grip
hurt.

“Chas,” she said, pulling away, and felt worse when he forced his eyes open. They were bloodshot, his face was gray, and his lips were peeled back in a furious expression. “You’re going to die if I don’t get you help.” Her voice rose in a desperate plea.
I need you.

“Don’t…fucking…care. Long…past…time.” Perhaps it was easier for him to be distracted, dragging out those words instead of focused on the pain. His hand moved and somehow curled around her arm. It was like an iron band, and he slowly, deliberately pulled her down onto the bed. “Stay. Here. Let…me…go.”

“Please, Chas.”
I can’t lose you too.
Macey struggled, trying to peel his fingers away, but somehow he was too strong—or she was too exhausted and heartsick—and the next thing she knew, she’d collapsed onto the bed next to him, sobbing silently.

What have I done?

Finally, Macey felt the heavy grip ease. His breathing was rough and unsteady, but he didn’t awaken as she slipped free and looked down at him. His arm lay useless next to him.

You’re a Venator. You’re strong. Fix it.

Fix it, or he won’t fight again.

He’ll probably die.

Oh God.

Macey touched his face. It burned her hand, and he didn’t move. He was completely out of it. But…did the wounds on his chest and throat look slightly better? A little less ugly and raw? Had the bleeding slowed? Perhaps.

All right. Next thing. Could she put the bone back into place? She was strong enough…

Trying not to think too hard about what had to be done, and whether she was doing the right thing, she swiftly cut away what was left of his sleeve to bare Chas’s muscular arm. Once his arm was uncovered and she could see where things had to go, she grasped his forearm with two hands that barely fit around it and drew in another deep, steadying breath.

And she gave a sharp, hard pull.

Chas shrieked, bucked awake and half upright…then, mercifully, collapsed back onto the bed. Silent but for his panting, and otherwise unmoving. He was obviously unconscious once more, or he would have been cursing her. Or worse.

Shaking, Macey looked down at what she’d done—the bone was no longer protruding, and things looked more “in place” despite the ugly black, purple, and raw red laceration. Then she bolted from the room to puke—but nothing came from her empty belly. After that, she found the telephone and called an ambulance. Then she went next door to St. Anselm’s to fill the Mason jars one more time.

Where was Temple?

Whether salted holy water would work on a compound fracture or its laceration, she had no idea, but at this point, Macey was out of ideas. All she knew was the bone was in place, and now they had to worry about infection.

She couldn’t lose Chas. Good God, what would she do without him? Alone in Chicago, facing vampires on her own?

Well, hell. Hadn’t he been doing just that while Macey was messing around with Al Capone?

I need you to do your job. Tonight. There’s something brewing out there—something’s going on—and I can’t keep up with all the undead in this town on my own.

He’d been right. And now he and Macey—and all of them—were paying the price for her blindness.

She touched the rosary around her neck, offered up a quick prayer, then dumped two full jars of the salted holy water over Chas’s leg, and splashed a little more on the rest of his wounds for good measure. He jolted and moaned in his sleep. His breathing sharpened, but he didn’t awaken.

She didn’t know whether that was a good thing or not.

Macey heard a noise from the living room. The back of her neck felt normal, so she snatched up a stake along with the pistol Chas kept on his bureau and hurried out of the bedroom. It was too soon for the ambulance.

“Temple!” she cried with relief. “What took you so long? I was worried.”

The cool and collected woman still had every one of her short, sleek hairs in place, and her skirt and blouse were perfectly straight and pressed, but her expression was more taut than a bowstring. “It’s only been an hour, sister, and there was a traffic jam. And if anyone is asking anyone where they been, it should be me asking you.”

“I know,” Macey said, glancing at the clock for the first time. It
had
been only an hour—but she’d felt like it was half a day. A look outside told her why, for she’d not even noticed the heavy rain clouds that made it dark, seeming later in the day than it was. “Look, I’m done with Capone for good. I’m not going back.”

“Long overdue,” snapped Temple, brushing past Macey to stalk down the hall to the bedroom. “Is he going to live?” She paused to flip a thumb in the direction of Chas.

“I hope so.” Macey filled her in on Chas’s condition. “I don’t know how he even got back here, he’s so weak—and why he didn’t go to you or Sebastian instead. I don’t know where or when he was attacked, but I’d sure as hell like to find out.”

“What the hell you been doing anyway?” Temple muttered sourly. “Well, it’s probably that old theater, the Iroquois—now they’re calling it the Oriental Theatre. They’re done fixing it up, and isn’t the grand opening tonight? That’s why there was such a traffic jam.”

Even newcomers to Chicago like Temple knew the story of the original Iroquois Theatre—when hundreds of people had been trapped inside during a fire in 1903. No one had touched the property for more than twenty years because of the bad memories and reputation. But the new owners had been working diligently on it, and something about the reopening had been mentioned in the papers nearly every week.

“So what do you know about the theater?”

“There was an incident there last night—several cops were hurt. One died. The papers aren’t saying what it was, and the owners are trying to push it off as an accident. But I don’t think so.”