Roaring Dawn: Macey Book 3 (The Gardella Vampire Hunters 10)(20)

Sitting with the only two females in the world—besides Wayren, and Macey had severe doubts whether the blond woman was actually of this world—who knew the truth about her life was comforting and relaxing.

But then in the next minute, that comfort and relaxation came crashing down.

“Oh, and did your father find you, Macey, dear? He came around, looking for The Silver Chalice, so I went on and told him how to tell it by the finial on the stair post. Hard to see in this weather, bu—”

“Your father?” Temple fairly shrieked, looking from Macey to her aunt and back again. She’d half risen from her seat. “Max Denton is alive? He’s here?”

Macey could do nothing but nod.

“How? I thought he was dead!”

“Welcome to the club,” Macey replied, wishing now that she’d made her escape—rain or no rain. How could her father not be dead…and her not know because no one told her? No one except Nicholas Iscariot. Sebastian was gone, but she’d believed him when he told her he didn’t know, and so had Chas…but then there was Al Capone. He’d seemed almost frightened when she mentioned her father, come to think of it. Macey gritted her teeth. Maybe a visit to old Scarface was in order.

“Wait—are you sure it was really your father? Not a trick?” Temple’s eyes were a little wild, and Macey wasn’t certain whether it was from fear or awe that the so-called “great” Max Denton had arrived.

“It’s definitely him.”

“What’s wrong, child? Aren’t you happy to see your daddy again?” asked Cookie.

“Am I glad to see the man who’s ignored me for thirteen years?” she replied tartly, reaching for a cup of coffee. “Who made me think he was dead? Why should I be?”

Temple stirred milk into her coffee and moved away from the desk, appearing relieved to have a break from her studies. “What did he say? Why is he here?”

“I don’t know. I left.”

Temple and Aunt Cookie looked at her without speaking.

Macey sighed. “He just showed up here without a word, and expects me to welcome him back into my life? To pretend nothing happened?”

“He is your father,” Cookie admonished.

“He’s Max Denton. He’s not my father.” Macey shrugged and reached for a beignet, ignoring the trail of powdered sugar that followed the pastry’s path. “He’s pretended to be dead for thirteen years.”

“I’m sure he had a reason for doing so,” Cookie said tentatively.

“We all have reasons for what we do,” Temple said quietly. “Or think we have.”

Macey looked at her and saw a glint of judgment in the other woman’s expression. “To just cut someone you love out of your life without letting them have a chance to…” She hesitated, then looked away. Damn.

Temple lifted a knowing brow. “You were saying?”

“What happened with Grady—what I chose to do, what I had to do—was a completely different situation.”

“Sounds pretty much the same to me, sister. A person—in this case, you or your father—decides to protect someone they love—that would be Grady or you—by walking out of their life, blocking them off. No choices or explanations given, correct? No chance for the person being left behind to decide whether they want to be left or not.”

“But—”

“But you were only little, that’s true, I’ll give you that. So maybe you weren’t old enough to make a decision about what was best, at that time. But Grady—he was. He is. He’s more of a man than ninety percent of the fellas in this city.”

Macey’s chest felt tight. “It’s not the same. Grady isn’t a Gardella, he isn’t a Venator—he doesn’t know what he’d be getting into.”

Temple was shaking her head, and her expression was steely. “He was just as instrumental as you were in getting out of that theater with Sebastian, wasn’t he? And he right as rain made a difference when you and a hundred other people almost got blew up at the museum.” She leaned forward. “All I’m saying to you, sister, is that you made the same decision about Grady your father made about you. And so you, my dear pot, should not be calling the kettle black.”

Macey settled back into her chair, firming her lips. Suddenly the beignet and its sweet dusting of sugar tasted like dirt. It was different with Grady. He wasn’t part of a family that had been called to a dangerous duty for centuries. He was an outsider. He wasn’t equipped to protect himself from the undead.

“Poor, darling child,” Cookie said, patting Macey’s hand with her soft, cool one. “And you having to get over the loss of your mama at the same time as your daddy leaving you.”

“That’s right,” Macey said, tears suddenly springing to her eyes. “He left me—when I needed him…the most. He sent me…away. They told me he…died. I grew up thinking I was an…orphan.”

“Aw, Macey, I’m not saying your daddy didn’t do you no wrong. But he had his reasons, just as you did with Grady, and him being a man… Well, he might not have made the right choices. They hardly ever do. I just think you ought to consider his side of the story, since you’ve got a similar one yourself,” Temple said.

Cookie handed her a lace-edged handkerchief, and Macey wiped her eyes and then her nose. All of a sudden, she was more sad than angry. It was as if all of the grief from when she was a child came rushing back, pushing away her feelings of righteousness.

“I’m sure your daddy loves you very much—and he did what he did for that reason,” Temple added.

Just as you did to Grady.

She didn’t actually say those words, but Macey heard them as clearly as if she had.

“And now he’s come back,” Cookie said brightly—as if that solved everything.

And now he’s come back. But what did that mean?

Macey rose. “Thank you for the coffee, Aunt Cookie. I’m going to—I was on my way out. I need some air.”

“Air? Bless your heart; you’re as likely to drown as to breathe out in that soupy mess,” Cookie said, looking at the rain-streaked window.

“I don’t mind.”

The outside air was chilly and damp, and Macey was glad she’d chosen to wear trousers and a hat instead of a dress or skirt, as she had last night. Though it was just approaching noon, the day was as dim and dark as if it were near twilight—and the streets were virtually empty.

Only a single vehicle drove down the road, its tires softly crunching the damp concrete. The rain had eased up a bit, but the mist was thick and drops plopped onto her hat and ran off its brim. Her shoes and the hems of her trousers were damp within a few steps.

Someone was looking out for her, for Macey was able to hail a taxi more quickly than she’d expected. “The Lexington Hotel,” she told the driver as she took off her hat and shook off the rain.

Despite her masculine garb, Capone’s goons recognized her, and one of them agreed to take her up to the gangster’s penthouse—but only after she gave them the pistol and knife she carried.

“Hey, boss,” called Tony as he escorted Macey into the room after a fourteen-floor elevator ride. “You got a visitor.”

“Well, well, Snorky,” she said, walking into the private suite as if she owned it. “Got yourself hidden away today, do you? Afraid you might melt in the pouring rain?”

“What da hell are you doing here?” Capone had fairly bolted out of his chair, the ash from his cigar flying everywhere and the wine glass on his desk wobbling alarmingly. He looked behind her as if waiting for someone else to appear, yet at the same time, trying to appear unconcerned. “Tony, I thought I told you I didn’t wanna see her no more.”

“But she ain’t packing nothing—I checked myself—and your wife’s not here,” Tony replied, looking from his boss to Macey as if he couldn’t understand why Capone would be so nervous about a slip of a woman like Macey—especially if she was unarmed. “Besides, she said she left some of her things here, and—”

“Get outta here,” Capone told his goon, looking somewhere between furious and mortified—neither of which boded well for poor Tony. “And don’t let no one else in. You hear me? No one.”

“Right, boss.”

“Thank you, Tony.” Macey gave him a sweet smile.

Still wearing a confused expression, Tony left the penthouse.

Capone turned to Macey. “Whaddaya want, doll? I thought our bizness was done.”

“I’ve discovered something since I left your employ, Scarface.” He hated that nickname, and therefore Macey used it with relish.

“Don’t fucking call me dat, you bit—doll.” Capone was clearly reining himself in. “Tell me what you want, then get da hell outta here. I ain’t got time for you.”

“My father is still alive.”

He pursed his mouth and tried to look surprised, but Macey realized immediately that wasn’t the case. “You knew he was alive?” She started across the room, ready to yank him up by the jacket and slam the bastard against the wall—but she thought better of it at the last minute, for she’d probably make a hole in the dry wall. “He’s here in Chicago.”