Unless, she supposed, Iscariot was here and he was wearing Rasputin’s amulet, safely cloaked from her notice by its power. Nausea pinched her belly. That sort of freedom made him all the more dangerous.
“I’m going. Now. I really am,” Flora said, trying to edge away even as the stake continued to pin her lightly against the wall. “Do you think I’d stick around with this happening?” She gestured to the blossom of crimson in the center of her frock. “Talk about causing a commotion.”
Macey was still undecided when she heard a voice—no, two voices—behind her that she recognized. Her cheeks warmed when she recognized Grady and Sabrina, and it sounded as if they were accompanied by others in a group as well.
She glanced at Flora to see the vampire still looking more stricken than an undead had the right to be, considering the circumstances. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing. It’s just…well… Nothing.” Flora tried to edge away. Macey would have none of it, and she gripped her friend’s arm, still holding the stake in place.
“What is it?”
“You said you’d let me go if—All right, fine. You might as well know. Your man, that reporter Grady, with the very fine blood and delicious head of hair? Well, I suddenly have a strong aversion to him. So I would very much like to leave, and you can be certain I won’t be back as long as he’s here.” She was actually trembling and very nearly cowering at the same time.
Macey stared at her, trying to determine whether the vampire was lying. But surely she wasn’t. “I’ll let you go—but listen to this: he’s not my man. Not anymore. We aren’t together, and he doesn’t even remember me anymore. His memory has been altered. He doesn’t know me, and he means nothing to me. Do you understand that?”
“Right, right—whatever you say. Big mistake on your part, Mace. He’s very fine. Now let me leave.”
Macey gaped at Flora in astonishment then stepped back to allow the woman to slip away even as she tried to make sense of what the vampiress had said.
Then, for the first time in weeks, she smiled, and felt weak with relief. Whatever Wayren had done, it was working.
Grady didn’t remember Macey, and the undead couldn’t abide him.
He was safe.
SIX
~ Of Self-Censorship and Propriety ~
Macey realized her opportunity almost too late. Just moments after Flora disappeared, slipping away to make her escape from the photography exhibit, it occurred to her that if she followed the vampire there was a good chance Flora would lead her to Iscariot.
She had a heartbeat of hesitation—how would she let Temple know?—then went on, navigating around the warren of exhibit walls in the direction Flora had gone. Temple, of all people, would understand. She knew how the Venators worked. And besides, she was obviously preoccupied with the delightful Dr. Sevin.
Macey measured the sensations at the back of her neck, for the chill from Flora’s undead presence lingered. Moments later, she was outside and—to her dismay—discovered that the sun had long set, and Chicago was being covered by a soft rain and a blanket of mist.
The sidewalks were nearly empty of pedestrians, but the boulevard was busy with automobiles crisscrossing in a steady stream.
The doorman was kind enough to tell Macey which way the tall, slender redhead had gone—though he gave her a pitying look when he saw that she had neither an umbrella nor any other protection besides her whisper-thin evening jacket.
“Going to be a bad’un,” he said, looking out into the night with a knowing air—though at the moment, the rain seemed fairly benign. He gestured with the whistle he wore on a chain around his neck. “Are you certain you don’t want me to call you a taxi, miss? Surely your friend has already gotten her own ride.”
Macey declined with some reluctance—she would rather get into a warm taxicab than ruin her shoes and freeze to death in the wet, cooling night air, but…duty called. This was the best chance she’d ever had to learn where to find Iscariot.
So she hurried down the block in the direction indicated by the doorman, for the first time feeling mild regret that she was no longer allied with Al Capone—for he would have had a car waiting for her use, or at least a bodyguard with an umbrella.
To her grim satisfaction, the eerie chill over the back of her neck, which had begun to ebb, grew stronger as she made her way toward the next cross street. That success, however, was balanced by automobiles rumbling by, splashing up a goodly amount of water, and the fact that her shoes were made for indoor wear, not puddles and raindrops. The feathers in her headband were already slumping limply over an ear, and her arms were covered with goosebumps beneath her evening jacket.
But she went on, hurrying down the gray-black street lit with erratic pools of light from restaurants, headlights, and street lamps. Few other pedestrians were out, and those who were carried umbrellas or at least wore fedoras tilted against the rain.
Flora was too far ahead for Macey to see her; she had only the sensation at the back of her neck for direction and the information the doorman had given her.
Then, all at once, the telltale chill became very sharp and strong. Her shoulders and arms prickled, and it wasn’t because of the rain.
Macey paused and slowly turned, her heart thudding harder. She looked across the street, beyond the river of automobiles, through a small group of young people walking past, and saw him.
Nicholas Iscariot.
She caught her breath and straightened, automatically sliding her hand down to close over the stake beneath her skirt.
The vampire lord stood there, separated from her only by four lanes of vehicles and a thick, foggy curtain of rain. He wore a long black trench coat buttoned up over his clothing and a top hat that glistened from the rain. She could see the jagged shadow on one side of his sharply cut face, part of the burn she’d inflicted on him.
His eyes glowed bright red, rimmed with ice blue—the only hues in a drab night. The strength of his heartbeat and its desire to control pulsed steadily across the distance.
Macey Gardella. Macey…
She felt his voice, rather than heard it. The syllables hissed softly in the depths of her ear, as if originating from inside her mind, rather than from across the boulevard and carried on the air.
We meet again.
Her heart thudded wildly, yet the solid grip of the stake beneath her fingers helped to steady her. Macey measured the distance, calculating the angle and timing, and the speed she’d need to plant the stake in his heart…and knew he was too far away to strike.
As if reading her mind, he inclined his head, just enough for her to see the arrogant acknowledgment there. Of course he wouldn’t take such a chance.
I’ll have the rings. They belong to me.
In response, she used her other hand to touch the silver cross hanging beneath her dress, the very one that had burned into the flesh of Iscariot’s face. The one that marked him.
She had marked him.
Steadied by that thought, empowered by it, she dragged the pendant out from beneath her dress and allowed it to fall against the front of her bodice, thunking there solidly.
She faced him still, allowing him to see that she had no fear of him—that she dare not show it, at least—and that she had come armed.
The rain poured down, and his red eyes glowed, and the silver cross over her chest gleamed in the filtered light.
Neither of them moved.
Autos zipped by. Water streamed. A laughing couple dashed through the rain, splashing past Macey.
All the while, Iscariot’s pulse thudded between them, reverberating like radio waves, tugging, coaxing, pulling at her.
She fought it, fought the allure of control. But even as she did so, the blood in her veins stirred, and her own pulse leaped and surged, fighting to match his. She gripped her stake, touched the vis bulla though her beaded dress, and kept control of her own heartbeat.
Come and get me, Iscariot.
She didn’t open her mouth, but he heard the words—for his head jolted back just enough that she knew she’d surprised him. His eyes blazed like small fires circled with dazzling blue.
I’ll destroy everything you love, Macey Gardella. I’ll have the rings.
She curved her lips wryly. Little did he know, she had nothing left to love. Now that Grady was safe, now that he had moved on and was protected, now that Sebastian was gone, and the rings were hidden away…
Suddenly, Iscariot blinked—and the two pinpoints of red and blue were extinguished, and the world was back to drab, wet gray again. The sidewalk where he stood was empty.
He was gone.
Macey suddenly felt the cold, not from the outside, but from deep within. Her knees were trembling, and her breath was making rapid white puffs in the gray mist.
And then she felt the warmth seeping into her—no, from her…for she was bleeding again from the old scars.
Iscariot had made his point.
+ + +
Max Denton had never been to Chicago.
He’d generally confined his revenge on the undead to annihilating vampires throughout Western Europe, though he had strayed further when the need was warranted—for example, to Romania and Turkey, once to India, and also once to Russia—St. Petersburg. In fact, in St. Petersburg, Max had saved the day by staking the infamous Rasputin after a plan to assassinate the creature had been spectacularly botched.