Roaring Dawn: Macey Book 3 (The Gardella Vampire Hunters 10)(22)

She was just coming down from the second floor when she heard a knock.

Grady was already on his way to answer the front door—it was his house, after all—as she made her way down the steps.

“Who on earth would be out on a day like today?” she said as he looked through the window.

He opened the door, and Savina glanced over as she walked by and saw nothing but a slight man holding a small suitcase, the rain pouring off his fedora. A salesman? Surely not on a Sunday. But he looked harmless enough—unless he was a vampire, of course; but even then, Grady would have to invite him in for any threat to be made—and the undead wouldn’t be able to cross over the silver crosses in the threshold anyway. Maybe it was someone from the Tribune.

Savina hadn’t even taken a seat on the sofa in the living room when Grady returned, more quickly than she had expected.

“Who was that?” she asked, moving a jumble of handcuffs and padlocks in order to sit down. Not pillows or even newspapers on Jameson Grady’s divan, but locks and cuffs. She shook her head in amusement. The assortment reminded her of Liam Stoker, a brilliant inventor who designed weapons and gadgets for some of the Venators. He was always carrying an assortment of mechanical parts around with him. They clinked and rattled in his pockets.

“I’m not quite certain,” Grady replied as he passed through into the kitchen.

Savina shrugged and curled up into a corner of the sofa, trying not to think about Max. It was good of Grady—beyond good—to offer his hospitality while they were here.

And even though Grady had given up his larger bedroom on the second floor to both of them, Max had hardly been here to share it with her since they’d arrived.

She shivered, suddenly miserable and lonely. And perhaps a little apprehensive. It wasn’t because of Grady; he was such a nice man, so accommodating and charming, and not the least bit awkward about the amount of time Savina was spending at his home—safely tucked away, as Max put it—while he was…doing what he had to do.

Perhaps she shouldn’t have come to Chicago after all. But Max had been deliciously persuasive, and she, like a lovelorn fool, had acquiesced.

Of course, Savina was partly at fault for the tension in their relationship, but things simply hadn’t been the same between them since the events of last Christmas. Or, rather, since he’d left her, three Christmases ago, and fate had thrown them back together just this past December at a secluded estate in England.

Neither of them had expected to see the other there—hell, as far as Savina knew, Max could have been dead, for all she’d heard from the man with whom she’d been lovers for more than a year.

And that, my friend, is the cause for your entire emotional turmoil. She couldn’t trust him with her heart any more.

True, their unexpected reunion   had been emotional, and Max had groveled—as well he should have—but.

Savina wasn’t certain anything had changed: whether he’d gotten over the reason he’d run away from her—no, he’d run from their relationship, not Savina. That was a point he’d at least been clear on: it wasn’t her, it was him.

Right.

“Do you want some tea?” Grady called from the kitchen. His voice drew Savina from the thoughts she’d been cycling through over and over for months. “Or something else?”

“Do you have coffee? Maybe with a shot of something strong in it to warm me up on such a nasty day?” Savina had been raised in Italy, in the midst of the Venators and their subterranean hideaway in Rome, so she’d never quite warmed up to the English preference of tea.

If only she could find someone in Chicago to make a good cappuccino, she’d be much happier.

As she waited for Grady to bring their drinks, Savina’s attention wandered, as it had several times before, over his vast collection of books—a miniature library in and of itself, considering the wide and varied topics they covered. Chemistry, biology, Latin, zoology, history, physics, religion and philosophy—not to mention fiction and biography. And others. There were more shelves and stacks in his bedroom as well.

And then there was the Houdini-type equipment, from the handcuffs and padlocks to a coffin-sized box from which Grady swore he could escape, even if tied or chained.

“I saw Houdini once,” she commented as Grady walked in with—thank God, coffee. Two mismatched cups on their own saucers, clinking on a tray along with a few crackers and a small tub of butter. “In London. He was amazing.”

“Amazing is an understatement,” Grady replied with a smile, taking a seat in an armchair near the dormant fireplace. He glanced at it, then at her. “Should I set a fire?”

“Oh, no, you needn’t go through the trouble. I’m sure you have work to do. Don’t you have a story to turn in, about the exhibit?” Savina already felt guilty that he’d been the one to escort her to the show last night, and that she’d been here all day with nothing to do.

“Oh, I’ve already done that one and turned it in. While you were sleeping last night—to make the Sunday edition. So, like God, today is my day off,” Grady replied with a grin. “Unless something big comes up, of course.”

Grady had been a good sport about taking her to the exhibit, for he was doing a story on it anyway. And fortunately, Savina hadn’t felt one iota of attraction between herself and Grady—and his manner made it clear he didn’t either. Of course, she was a good ten years or more older than he was, so it wasn’t the least bit surprising. Still, it would have been awkward had that not been the case.

Max had insisted it was safer that he not be seen in public until he got a better understanding of what was happening with the undead in Chicago. He was the most recognizable Venator in the world, and if a vampire noticed him prematurely, it could set their plans awry. It was best for Savina to play her role as Sabrina Ellison, and to keep secret her connection with Max Denton.

Of course, that didn’t stop him from slipping into bed with her very early this morning, and gathering her up against his sleek, muscular body—his hair cool and damp from the storm, a fresh aura like the rain itself emanating from his skin, his mouth hot and soft. They hadn’t talked, no, he knew better than that, for he knew she’d ask the questions he didn’t want to answer. But they did other things, and though he left her warm and smiling, her body loose and humming, inside she had a knot of fear for the future. About how much longer she could do this.

She knew he was in contact with Wayren, and hopefully, by now—Savina dearly hoped, for that would go a long way in easing her tension—with his own daughter.

“It’s no bother to make a fire,” Grady said. “You shivered a minute ago.”

Savina smiled at his mistake, but made no move to correct him. “In that case, a fire would be lovely. Thank you.”

“When did you see Houdini? Was he doing his underwater escape act yet?”

“It was before the war—in ’13, in London. The things he did were miraculous, really. Yes, he did the underwater escape—what did he call it? The Chinese Water Torture Trick. They chained him up, then lowered him upside down into a glass-sided container of water. And he got out in less than forty seconds.” Savina had seen it with her own eyes, and yet she still couldn’t believe it. “And I heard he broke out of the most secure jail cell at Scotland Yard. How did he do it? You must know. Max says you were close friends.”

Grady was half turned away from her as he worked at the fireplace, but she could see the rounding of his cheek as he grinned. “I know some of his secrets, yes. In general, it’s a combination of strength and flexibility—did you know he ran at least seven miles a day, every day, from the time he was fourteen? He did stretches and lifted weights, too. And he ate well and slept well. He kept himself in extremely good physical shape.”

Savina was nodding, a smile on her face. Oh, yes, she remembered seeing the Great Houdini remove his robe to reveal a blue bathing suit before being chained up and lowered into the water. The man had been pure, taut muscle. The smooth shape of his pectorals and shoulders had even showed beneath the material of the swimming suit. The women in the audience had swooned privately at the sight of such a masculine specimen while they worried publicly over the dangerous escape he was attempting.

“Being able to dislocate a shoulder helps too, as well as being double-jointed,” Grady said, flashing her a look from over his shoulder. “And he was as flexible as a Far Eastern yogi. But there were other…let’s say techniques…that he employed. Secreting tiny tools on his person, for example, in his hair or mouth. Sometimes his wife Bess”—he laughed softly, shaking his head—“would even pass him a tiny lock pick when she kissed him for good luck. They’re not secrets—any good escape artist knows the basics. But Houdini was the best because he always tried for more, he was in perfect physical condition, he was creative, and above all, he knew how to be a showman. An entertainer.” His shoulders slumped a little, then he reached for another piece of wood. “It’s simply unbelievable that he’s dead, and so suddenly too.”

“It’s a great loss for the world,” Savina agreed.