Roaring Dawn: Macey Book 3 (The Gardella Vampire Hunters 10)(24)

He stomped down the steps at Grady’s house, then slowed a trifle when he reached the bottom, half waiting for the door to open behind him and for Savina to come rushing after him to explain or apologize…but she didn’t.

He didn’t wait, but stalked off into the night, brushing too close to a soft arborvitae, which generously deposited all of its collected rain onto the front and side of his coat and down over his trousers. As if he weren’t already wet enough.

That’s what you get, Denton, you damned wanker. You left her, remember? Savina told you she didn’t know if she could ever trust her heart with you again.

He told his conscience to shut the bloody hell up. He didn’t have time to deal with personal matters right now—he had other personal matters to attend to. Not to mention a buggering vampire lord who was determined to control the world.

Thus, the mood he was in when he slammed open the door of The Silver Chalice was not one that invited reprimand or even comment from those inside—even when the entire damned place shook and rattled, and two glasses fell off the shelves, shattering. Damned Venator strength.

He stepped inside and whipped off his coat—he’d forgotten a hat in his rush to leave—flinging droplets of water everywhere, and hung it on a hook. It was only then that he realized three people were staring at him from their seats at the bar: Woodmore, an elegant Negro woman of about thirty, and Macey.

His daughter.

He faltered, but only for half a step, then continued on his way toward the group of them. This gave him the chance to actually look at her this time. To take in all the details he’d only been able to imagine over the years—for he’d refused to see photographs or read any letters about her for fear his resolve to stay away would falter.

She was slender and petite, like Felicia had been, easily a head shorter than most men. She’d reach only to Max’s chin if he ever got close enough to her for an embrace, which at this point seemed unlikely. The thought of that delicate figure taking on a vicious, powerful vampire was enough to make his heart stop.

And yet he knew she had done so.

And won.

A little stroke of pride flitted through him, followed by pain.

His daughter’s hair was the color of ripe walnut shells and curly, like his, though she had looser ringlets that were also damp from the rain. So she had been out. She had the Pesaro eyes—but of course she’d had them from birth, the large, dark, expressive ones fringed with thick lashes. Her face was chiseled and feminine, with a strong and determined chin, a wide mouth, and graceful brows.

In those moments, he recognized how beautiful, confident, and strong his daughter had come to be—and without an iota of his help. All on her own.

“Ah. The prodigal father has returned,” Macey said. “Presumably, you’re in Chicago to assist with Iscariot—or were you just passing through?”

Max ignored Woodmore’s smothered bark of laughter and slid onto the stool that gave him the best view of his daughter. His blasted knees were actually a trifle weak. He was having unusual difficulty corralling his thoughts. “Macey.”

When their eyes met, everything he’d thought he might say fled. His mouth was dry.

“Well, Max? Which is it? Passing through or here to join the club? Oh, no, wait…I know. You stopped in to put the fear of God into Al Capone, not trusting your own daughter to handle things on her own. Like she’s been doing for thirteen years.” Her brown eyes were spitting fire.

“Whatever it is, make up your mind, because we haven’t got a moment to lose.” She pushed toward him a piece of paper that had been sitting on the counter. “We just received this. It was sent through Aunt Cookie’s millinery, and Temple brought it over.” She gestured to the other woman, who seemed unable to take her eyes from Max.

Well, at least one female appreciated him. And was maybe even a little intimidated.

Max snatched up the paper, glad to have something on which to focus other than the snide greeting from his daughter. He thrust away familial complications and became a Venator as he read the note.



Relinquish the pyramid. For every hour you delay, a very pretty price will be paid. One by one by one.



“Of course it’s from Iscariot. Flora would have gone right to him with the news—and it’s her writing, as I should know.”

Max looked at Macey. “How is that?”

“She was my best friend.”

He held her gaze for a moment, for there were volumes of unspoken words there. He felt a pang of pain for her grief.

“No details or directions either, about where or how to ‘relinquish the pyramid.’ The assumption being—we’ll know,” Woodmore commented. “That doesn’t make me very optimistic.”

“It’s Iscariot. There’s nothing optimistic about him,” Macey replied flatly. “He is evil personified. We don’t know where he’s been staying or how to find him, so there’s no opportunity to besiege him in his lair.”

“And he’s recently come into possession of Rasputin’s amulet. That’s part of the reason I’m here,” Max said. “But that’s not the only reason.”

“So I’ve heard. Tell me, Max…what are you going to do with the extra vis bulla you seem to have acquired?” she asked in a very chilly voice.

It dawned on his that she wasn’t pleased he’d spoken with Alphonsus. He frowned, but before he could decide how to respond, Macey moved on.

“What is Rasputin’s amulet?”

“It’s an emerald the size of a peach pit, set in a gold fitting, worn as a pendant or brooch. It increases the power of its wearer, extends it, and—”

“It glows. Green. In the dark,” Macey said. Her eyes were wide and she glanced at Woodmore. “That’s how.”

“You’ve seen it?” Any last bit of hope Max might have clung to that Iscariot hadn’t learned about the power of the amulet disintegrated.

“Seen it, and been the recipient. That explains my dream,” she said, looking at Woodmore. “Iscariot taunted me in a dream, and when I came out of it…I was bleeding. In the same place he’d wounded me months ago. As if he’d just reopened the scars.”

Max sucked in his breath. “Bites? Macey, have you been Marked by Nicholas Iscariot?” His heart ceased to beat. No.

“No,” Woodmore said. “She’s not been Marked—at least in the same way Lilith did to Max Pesaro. I made certain of it—the bites he inflicted on her were normal, and healed well with salted holy water. But he’d cut her too, with a dagger, and—”

“And those wounds healed, but…but then they came back,” Macey explained.

“In your dream?”

“Yes, but also—when I encountered him in person, a month ago, he caused the cuts to open again—they’d healed but there were still scars. They bled. And also last night the same thing happened.”

“Last night?” Woodmore turned toward her as Temple made a shocked sound. “You didn’t bother to mention that.”

Macey’s face hardened into stubborn, closed-off lines. “Yes, I had a little encounter with him. It wasn’t anything serious—he was across the street from me and he stayed there…until he disappeared. He’s just…tormenting me. Trying to, anyway. Nevertheless, he made it clear he wants the rings.”

“Not anymore. Now he wants the damned pyramid,” Woodmore said grimly.

“You said, ‘that’s how.’ What did you mean?” Max said, fighting back the shocking, startling fear that suddenly threatened to overtake his mind. His daughter and Nicholas Iscariot: face to face? His daughter, marked and scarred by the bastard? His insides turned to ice.

Thank God he’d come. His jaws were tight, his fingers curled into his palms, his body fairly vibrating with the need to go now and find him.

If only he knew where.

“And in your dream, two nights ago,” Woodmore continued, causing Max to wonder if the bastard had been there when it happened—he knew where Macey slept, didn’t he? “Tell him about that. I find that more concerning than the other.”

She looked at Max. Now he saw fear in her eyes, which ratcheted up his own protective instincts. He fought them back, tucking them away for when he needed them. It was imperative he focus on facts, not emotions.

“I had a dream and Iscariot was there, threatening me, demanding the rings, and—and when I woke from the dream, I was bleeding. It was real; it stained my clothing. Chas saw it too.” Her fingers, resting on the bar, trembled slightly. “And I saw him wearing the pendant in my dream—something I’d never seen on him before: a greenish glow emanating from here”—she touched herself in the middle of her breastbone—“as if he were wearing a pendant. It might also have been beneath his coat last night, but I didn’t see it.”

“Rasputin’s amulet,” Temple muttered. She had an old book in front of her and began to flip through the brittle pages.

“‘A root of malevolence shall marshal such power as never before known. It shall permeate far and deep, and only the dauntless one and his peer shall rise up to it,’” said Woodmore.