But Sebastian was gone at last, the poor sot, and Max Denton’s presence was needed in gangster-infested Chicago. So he had come—despite his desperate desire to never cross the Atlantic.
It wasn’t that he feared traveling over the ocean—whether it be by air or ship—and he sure as hell didn’t fear Nicholas Iscariot. In fact, he couldn’t wait to meet the devil face to face, for it was on the vampire lord’s orders that Max’s wife Felicia had been attacked and mutilated almost beyond recognition thirteen years ago.
And he’d already delivered to Alphonsus Capone the one and only warning he’d give him about staying out of the business of the Venators—though he was rather hoping the man would ignore it, just so he’d have something fun to do. Max smiled coldly to himself, then the humor faded as he looked around the dark, smelly, dingy pub in which he waited. The place was no better than an armpit, and it was owned by the damned bootlegger himself.
No, it wasn’t the gangster or the vampire lord or the travel, or even the fact that it was illegal to order a good whiskey once he crossed into the United States that unsettled him.
It was only a woman.
A merely mortal woman—well, really, two women, dammit, now that he actually thought about it—who were even more likely to kill him than Iscariot was. Though Max didn’t give Iscariot a very high probability of succeeding anyway.
But the women…well, that was another matter entirely.
He looked up as a cloaked figure—unaccountably dry though it was pouring rain outside—made its way through the dimly lit pub, heading unerringly in his direction.
Another woman, but this one, at least, didn’t have it in for him.
“Max.” Wayren’s lilting voice somehow filtered over all the shouts, guffaws, clangs, and other noise that filled the joint. And with her simple greeting came a wave of peace he desperately needed.
She didn’t seem to mind the dinginess of the place, the rough voices and even rougher appearance of the patrons, the thick cloud of smoke that filtered over everything (at least tobacco was still legal in this backward nation), and the stickiness of the table at which he sat.
“Apologies, Wayren. This was the cleanest table I could find,” he said, fishing out a handkerchief to wipe off a chair for her. He was probably the only man in the whole buggering place who even owned a handkerchief, let alone used it. He didn’t bother to comment on the fact that she wasn’t dripping wet like everyone else who’d come into this joint.
She smiled at him from beneath her hood, pale blue eyes calm and filled with acceptance. “Not at all, Max. It reminds me of the place I used to meet Andreas—The Snorting Hare—back in…well, back. And as that’s neither here nor there—”
“Andreas? I’m afraid I’m not as up on my Venator history as I should be. Who is he?”
Wayren smiled beatifically, but she didn’t take the bait.
Of course she didn’t. Max knew better.
“And how is Macey?”
He winced at the sudden and direct hit, as if a crossbow bolt had slammed into his shoulder, and tried to think of a response that didn’t make him sound like a wanker.
As it turned out, he didn’t need to reply. The expression in her eyes told him she already knew the answer.
“How long are you going to hide from her…and from Savina?”
Max smothered a curse, for he’d always sensed it would be blasphemous to swear in Wayren’s presence. Though that didn’t mean he was always able to hold it back. “How do you know about Savina?”
She gave him a look that had him sighing: one blond eyebrow, lifted just slightly as a small smile curved her lips.
As if she’d answer anyway.
The blasted thing about Wayren was: she knew many things—as she was wont to say—but she didn’t know everything. And it was hard to guess what she did and didn’t know.
But it always seemed she knew just enough to remind him that he dared not anticipate her, either way.
“Savina’s here in Chicago.”
“Right,” he replied. “A photography display. She’s exhibiting under her professional name, Sabrina Ellison. But of course you know that.”
Savina sent word she’d put him on the guest list for the event tonight, and he’d almost gone…but things weren’t quite… Well, things weren’t exactly right between them. And he didn’t know how the hell to fix it.
Give him a damned crossbow and a stake, and he could slay an entire tribe of undead. Arm him with a sword, and he could decapitate a trio of Imperial vampires and not break a sweat. Lock him in handcuffs, and he could break free before his jailer walked out of the room. Slip him a pistol, and he could shoot the ashy tip off a cigarette from across the street without damaging the smoker.
But, by God, how to make Savina look at him with love and trust again…he had no earthly clue.
His belly felt sour and empty, and he really, really wished for a bloody whiskey.
Wayren reached across the table and closed her small, slender hands over his large, rough ones. For being so slight, they were incredibly warm and strong. “You’ll do the right thing, Max. You always do…even if you do come to it a little later than one might hope.”
He looked up at her, shocked to find a glint of humor and reproach in her eyes. Ah yes…the not-so-subtle reminder that he’d ignored his daughter for thirteen years.
Well, not precisely ignored her. He knew she was better protected than the bloody Crown Jewels and well taken care of, but he also didn’t want there to be any chance someone might trace her through him. So he’d remained firmly out of touch and studiously ignorant of everything about her…until the first letter he wrote. The letter he sweated and bled over, dragging every word from deep within.
The letter, which, by the way, was never delivered, thanks to bloody Alphonsus Capone.
“Would you mind if we talked about something else?” he said. “For example, something I might actually know how to damn—er, handle?”
“Such as the dauntless one?”
This had Max sitting up straight. “Yes. Who did Rosamunde mean by the dauntless one? I have my suspicions, of course, but I’d like confirmation.”
Wayren lifted her brows, both of them this time. An enigmatic smile touched her lips, but she didn’t speak.
He ground his teeth. “You aren’t going to tell me anything, are you?”
She shook her head, her eyes dancing at his consternation. Perhaps she was the third woman who was out to get him. “The prophecy will be what it will be; it’s not for you—or anyone—to try and make it happen.”
“Then why do we even have the damn—the blasted things anyway?”
“For guidance and warning. But not for a blueprint. Not for a path on which one insists upon riding, without listening to one’s own intuition and intelligence.”
“Right.” He realized she’d removed her hands from covering his, and had taken with them the innate peace that always flowed through her touch.
“I’ve seen Chas,” she said.
“You didn’t tell him I’m here, did you?”
Now Wayren gave him a pitying look. “Really, Max, how long are you going to insist on lurking about Chicago without making yourself known?”
He glowered, then scanned the room over her shoulder again. “It’s only right for Macey to be the first to know I’m here.”
“I think that’s an excellent plan, Max. Quite brave of you, in fact.”
His gaze flew to hers, but she merely gave him that benign smile and continued, “You can count on my support in that matter. However, I suggest you don’t wait too long to reveal yourself. Someone like you won’t remain anonymous in this city for long.”
“So you won’t let on that I’m here? To anyone?”
“I won’t.”
“But…?”
Wayren did not seem to be able to contain her sense of humor tonight, for her eyes were glinting again. “You should probably know that Macey attended the photography exhibit tonight.”
Max felt the color drain from his face. “She did? She was…at…the same place Savina was?” His lips could hardly form the words. But worse than that, his brain couldn’t even handle the implications of what would happen if Macey and Savina should…meet.
Oh God.
Meet, and talk to each other, and realize who the other was…
Oh God.
If that happened, he was well and truly fu—
Blast it. He couldn’t even think a vulgar word in Wayren’s presence.
He looked up to find her watching him. “I really need a drink.”
“No,” she replied firmly. “You need to find your daughter.”
SEVEN
~ A Discourse Against the 18th Amendment ~
Chas slogged into The Silver Chalice two hours before dawn—cold, wet, and grumpy as hell.
Mainly because what he’d hoped would happen—that he’d be struck off the earth by one of the violent bolts of lightning tearing through the city—hadn’t occurred.
Damn. And so I’ll live to see another day.
To his surprise, the pub was dark and still, and it wasn’t yet dawn—though the clouds were so thick and heavy, who knew when the sun would be able to shine through anyway. A small lamp burned near the entrance through which he’d come, and there was another light at the door leading to the private apartments in back.