Just sad.
And scared. Beneath it all, she was terrified.
Chas waited silently—he was good at that too—and she finally blurted out, “That damned lady photographer was there. In her dressing robe. They probably sat around all day and talked about her pictures from—from Paris or wherever they were. Notre Dame, and the creepy catacombs with those skulls everywhere, and from the tops of skyscrapers. She probably told him all about her adventures, and now he’s going to go with her, and…”
Good grief, she sounded like a lunatic. Like a weak, lovesick lunatic.
Not like a Venator. Not like a woman who was born to fight evil, to throw men across the room, to come face to face with a nightmare with fangs…
She was weak, and foolish, and why was she even here? Why hadn’t she just remained a normal woman, with a normal life?
“You know, even Victoria Gardella cried,” Chas said. “And she made her own mistakes—a good many, if you’d ever heard Max Pesaro talk about it.”
“Did you know them? Back then?” Macey spared a moment to be fascinated in spite of the torrent of emotions inside her.
He shrugged. “In a manner of speaking. Pesaro was there when I went through the Trial to get my vis bulla. It’s all rather a blur due to the way Wayren manipulated me through time—it was as if we stopped in their London on our way here, skipping a decade here, a few more there… But, yes, I met Victoria, and Pesaro as well. You do have his eyes. And her temperament.” He smiled, and her heart fluttered.
“You’re too damned attractive for your own good, Chas,” she said, stepping away, wiping the last stray tears from her eyes. “If you aren’t careful, I might drag you back to my bedroom anyway.”
He shook his head, his gaze warm and sad. “Macey, love, there aren’t many other things I’d rather do, but it’s better that doesn’t happen. At least…not until you figure out a few things.” He glanced again toward the door that led to the pub—and Max Denton.
“And until I… Well.” He shook his head again. “Right, then. Against my better judgment, I’m going to bid you good night. I have a feeling tomorrow is going to be an ugly day.”
TWELVE
~ The Dawning of the Vilest of Days ~
Monday morning, Grady was in the Tribune tower working at his desk. He’d come in before nine o’clock, having left Savina to her own devices at his house. He knew she was going to be at the Chicago Library this morning, supervising the dismantling of her photography display.
Neither of them commented on the fact that Max hadn’t returned last night.
It was past ten thirty, and Grady was making notes about a list of potential contacts for a story when he heard someone shouting from the elevators.
“There’s a hostage situation,” said Earl Perry, a typesetter who’d just rushed off the elevator. His face was pale and drawn and his words fell over themselves as the others gathered around to listen to the news. “Man’s got himself locked up with at least two dozen girls at Beedle’s.”
Grady pushed up so fast his chair crashed to the floor. “Who is it? At Beedle’s?” He slammed on his hat as Perry stammered a reply.
“I—no one knows who—it just came in on the telephone, and the colonel told us—yes, that fancy school—”
But Grady hadn’t waited for the rest of the details. He’d already reached the elevator—whose dial indicated the car was on the third floor. He was on the twelfth.
“Go get ’em, ace,” someone shouted at his back.
Grimly, he eschewed the slow-moving elevator and bounded down the steps, trench coat flapping around his legs, the unnecessary Go get ’em, ace reverberating in his head.
Yes, there was a hell of a story. But that wasn’t why he was winging himself around the sharp corners of each flight of stairs and leaping down the last three to the landings as he reached them.
Beedle’s—formally known as Miss Beedle’s Perfect School for Young Ladies—was an elite boarding school, and the building itself was a forbidding mansion surrounded by an iron fence topped with spikes. Though he had never had cause to visit the school, he’d passed by it on numerous occasions. Each time, he’d been struck by its impenetrable, prisonlike appearance: the imposing fence contributed, of course, but there was also a large, treeless yard, and sheer brick walls five stories high, devoid of the popular decorative finishes of most buildings. Windows on the first two levels were covered with ornate but efficient wrought iron grilles similar to those found in New Orleans.
The school was known as a place for the daughters of the wealthiest and most powerful men in Chicago—everyone from gangsters to senators to business moguls. It was clearly an institution meant to protect those delicate beings from all external threats—and, likely, to keep them from seeking them out as well.
Grady tossed up a thanks that he’d not been raised by rich or powerful parents. Being sent to a place like Beedle’s would have been worse than prison—and, in his mind, far worse than his own tragic and impoverished beginnings. Nevertheless, apparently Chicago’s elite (and those who aspired to join them) felt differently, for the school had a waiting list three years long. And when a family learned of its daughter’s acceptance therein, it wasn’t unusual to see a notice in the Tribune announcing it—as if it were a wedding or engagement.
Whoever the hostage taker was, he’d chosen well: everyone in the city would be on pins and needles until the terror was resolved. Whatever the man wanted—perhaps money, which it surely had to be—would most likely be delivered to him on a silver platter in order to rescue the wealthy and delicate hostages.
Unless Grady could help find a way to abort the perpetrator’s plan. With his Houdini-like skills and other expertise he’d acquired back in his street days in Dublin, he was in a unique position to offer help. Since he’d assisted in cornering a counterfeit gang several months back, he’d gained some notoriety and validation with the cops. If Linwood happened to be on site, that would grease the wheels with the authorities even more.
Grady drove as far as he was able, but when he was still two blocks from Beedle’s, he was forced to park. Streets had been blocked off in a perimeter around the school, and policemen and onlookers filled the throughways. The rain had ceased late the night before, but the ground was still wet and muddy, and the air was thick with moisture.
He used his press pass as an excuse to push through the barriers, and found Linwood with three other cops known to Grady. They were standing at the gate of the school and had strained expressions on their faces. Other officers stood about in different clusters, and he recognized the chief of police, along with some of his lieutenants. Everyone looked grim and hopeless.
“What’s the story?” Grady asked Linwood and his companions without taking the time for a formal greeting.
“Guy’s inside, not sure which floor—probably the big dining hall. He’s got twenty girls under his control, ages twelve through sixteen. The rest of the students and staff escaped or were released,” his uncle explained. “When they came out, they gave us the message that if anyone stepped past the perimeter fence, the hostages would be killed immediately.”
“Surely he didn’t do this all alone?” Grady asked incredulously. “Does he have a bomb?”
“No bomb we’re aware of. He’s not alone—got a small army with him. We’ve counted roughly a dozen others, saw glimpses of them through the windows. Reports from the ones he set free corroborate this estimate,” said Officer Donahue.
Grady swore under his breath, looking at the fortress-like school. “Has he been in contact with anyone? Do we know what he wants?”
Linwood shook his head. “Nothing yet. The report came in only about thirty minutes ago—you got here fast, Grady. I was just about to have someone call you.”
Just then, there was an exclamation from one of the cops at the gate. “The door’s opening!”
So it was—the massive oak door yawned open. A young girl of no more than thirteen, wearing her school uniform, stumbled out onto the porch as if she’d been pushed.
She staggered, trying to run, stumbled again, and then fell down the steps. She lay there, sprawled facedown on the damp green grass.
“Someone help her!” cried a woman—unnecessarily, for Donahue and Linwood had already opened the gate, and their companion, Officer Barnett, pushed through at a run. Linwood and Donahue followed in his wake with their weapons drawn.
At this time, the bystanders gathered around the school were completely hushed, though the crowd tried to surge forward to see better. The encroaching group was held off by the beat cops who’d been erecting barriers along the street.
By now, Barnett had scooped up the girl. With a wary glance at the windows of the school, he dashed back to the gate, accompanied by Linwood and Donahue. This event took no more than thirty or forty seconds, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief when all four of them passed back through the gate safely.
Grady was among those who gathered around when Barnett laid the girl on a pallet next to an ambulance with its rear doors open. Thus, he was one of the first to see the blood pumping from a distinctive type of wound on her throat. The mark had been obscured by her long, dark hair and the navy school uniform.