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

Iscariot turned his head slightly, and now she saw his other cheek: marred by a burn in the shape of a thick cross. She allowed a grim, satisfied smile to curve her lips, for she’d been the one to put that scar on his face.

“Of course I came,” she replied. “I couldn’t resist looking at your handsome face.” She braced herself, expecting him to launch toward her in fury.

She would end this now. Tonight. The stake was firm in her grip. She was ready.

Her heartbeat was her own.

Instead, he showed her his fangs and, to her surprise, became very still. His eyes burned brighter.

He seemed to wait…to concentrate. Something shifted in the air, and she felt the space between them change. It thickened. Shimmered darkly. Her breathing clogged a little, and her pulse began to thud a trifle slower. He was fighting to capture her heartbeat, to make it his own. To get into her very blood, to control the depths of her heart.

To control her.

As she fought the tug, Iscariot recognized it and smiled lasciviously. He displayed a mouthful of wicked fangs, and his tongue slipped out, red and glistening. As the air between them pulsed with power, stretching and shimmering with malevolence, he licked his lips as if tasting something delicious. His eyes burned on her with lust and hatred.

“We are well matched, Macey Gardella,” he told her, his gaze resting heavily on her as the energy pull eased. Nevertheless, she continued to avoid his eyes and forced back the desire of her heart to meet the pulsing beats of his. “You’ve marked me, but I too have marked you.” His white hand moved sharply.

A searing pain streaked down the front of her torso, tracing her sternum from the hollow of her throat to the bottom of her ribcage.

She felt a sudden rush of blood springing from the scar that had healed over months ago, striping the front of her shirt. And then a second hot pain, around the nipple of her left breast.

Iscariot’s eyes blazed with fever, but he still didn’t move toward her. Instead, he made a sharp gesture with his hand and another light popped on—somehow, someway in this primitive tunnel, he created a small spotlight with the flick of a finger.

Macey stilled when she saw the subject of the spotlight. Grady.

Her former lover wasn’t looking at her. He sagged between two undead who held him with their sharp-nailed hands. There was a lot of blood.

No.

It took every bit of control she owned to keep from moving to him.

No. Wayren, you promised he’d be safe. You promised.

Macey was paralyzed, and she could do nothing…nothing…as Iscariot cast a knowing smile at her and moved to Grady.

A cry lodged in her throat, but she couldn’t reveal her terror. She couldn’t let them know. Couldn’t expose herself, couldn’t do a thing to save him…

“The rings, Macey. Give me the rings.”

No. I can’t…Oh, God, don’t make me choose…

“Give me the rings…and he will live,” Iscariot said.

As if on cue, Grady lifted his face and looked right at her.

His lake-blue eyes. They were filled with pain and terror, pleading…but no recognition flared in them when he looked at Macey.

Nothing.

He didn’t know her.

He was going to die, and he didn’t even know why.

“So be it.” Iscariot cast her a triumphant smile as he swirled toward Grady in a flutter of black cloak, wide and heavy, and as enveloping as the darkness in the tunnel.

Macey screamed inside, horror rushing through her as the cloak wrapped around her, heavy as death, tight as bindings. She raged and twisted, fighting to free herself, to go to Grady as Iscariot tore into him with fangs and sharp nails.

Blood, everywhere, blood…

Blood…darkness, binding her, smothering her…



+ + +

Macey woke suddenly, bolting upright amid twisted blankets. Her face was wet, and her chest heaved as if she’d run miles. She was shaking.

Oh God, oh God, no.

It was just a dream. Just a dream.

She looked around, straining into the dim light that filtered from beneath her bedroom door. She forced herself to see the shape of familiar objects in the room: a glint from the mirrored dressing table holding her pocketbook, combs, and jewelry, the tall, odd hat stand with the new pink confection from Aunt Cookie, the bulky chair where she’d tossed her dress and stockings hours ago.

Panting but no longer disoriented, Macey flung back her covers and got out of bed. The very action of putting her feet on solid ground helped bring her back to now, to reality.

Just a dream.

Her heart still hammered, and her knees were trembling…but it was just a dream.

Yet it was a dream that could very well come true.

Clammy with cold sweat, she made her way in the dark to wash her face. By the time she drank a large glass of water and dried her hands, the trembling had stopped and she was breathing normally.

But she wasn’t going back to sleep.

Macey glanced at the bed, a mountain of lumps in the strained light. She could make out the hills of its cyclonic mess of sheets and coverlet, and was incredibly grateful Chas hadn’t been there to witness such a display.

But then again, he had his own demons.

What a pair they were, she and Chas Woodmore.

Her pulse still a little off balance, Macey shrugged into an ivory chenille robe that comforted her with its soft, fluffy embrace.

She slipped out of her bedroom, padding down the silent corridor lit by a single sconce. Temple’s room was at the end—she’d been encouraged to take over the one that had belonged to Sebastian, as it was the largest and most comfortable.

Now that she was no longer allowing Al Capone to blackmail her, Macey had moved into another of the small apartments connected to The Silver Chalice. There were several rooms and hallways, plus a kitchen and living space that spanned the underground area between the pub and Cookie’s Smart Millinery—a hat shop located down the block and behind The Silver Chalice.

When Macey opened the silver-gilded, cross-encrusted door that separated those back rooms from the pub, she expected to find the bar silent and empty. After all, it was well past dawn. Sebastian—and now Temple—had always closed up just before sunrise because he slept during much of the day, as most vampires were wont to do, and opened at sundown.

But damn, the place wasn’t empty. Chas was there. He sat at the long, scarred counter, nursing a glass of something considered illegal, thanks to the U.S. government.

Macey hesitated. The last thing she wanted was to be drawn into conversation with anyone—let alone one as perceptive and blunt as Chas.

But it was too late. As careful as she’d been, he’d obviously heard the soft sweep of the door, and turned to look. Macey saw hard weariness and irritation on his face. That was nothing new—those emotions were usually etched there, except in rare moments of levity or passion…both of which she’d experienced firsthand.

“You all right?” he asked in a rough voice. “You’re up early for having been out all night on the streets. At least, that’s where I assume you were. What happened?”

She wanted to turn back around and retreat to the sanctuary of her room before he saw the fear and discomfort lingering in her eyes…or before she did something else equally foolish.

But at the same time, as much as she wanted escape, she was drawn to him. He was magnetic and powerful in an unsettling way. And one thing Chas did well was help her forget. Help her clear her mind—or empty it, depending how one looked at it.

And Macey was in desperate need of clearing her mind. So she sat on a stool at the corner of the bar as she tightened the belt of her robe.

“Couldn’t sleep,” was all she said.

He looked up at her from beneath a thick lock of blue-black hair without moving his head. Just his eyes: dark, bloodshot, heavy-lidded. Nevertheless, they were lit with something that made her pulse leap and her mouth go dry again. “I know a remedy for that.” His lips quirked up a little on one side.

“And so you do,” she replied, holding his gaze while her insides flipped and dove, and a sizzle of heat shot through her. But it was ruined by a pang of sadness.

She looked away. “When did you get back?” He’d gone off somewhere for a few days without warning. But at least he’d left a note, so she didn’t wonder whether he too was gone for good.

“A while ago. Did you miss me?”

No. Yes. A little. Maybe. More than I should’ve, you arrogant, frustrating bastard.

After all, it was just he and Macey now left to face Nicholas Iscariot. To find a way to destroy the powerful vampire lord. And unless one of them turned out to be the so-called “dauntless one,” Macey wasn’t certain of their chances at success, as foretold in Lady Rosamunde’s prophecy:

“Upon its unleashing, 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.”

Thus, without Chas…she was on her own. So he’d better stick around.

And without the dauntless one and his peer—who Al Capone, at least, had believed was Macey herself—what were their chances of stopping the “root of malevolence,” which could only be Nicholas Iscariot? Perhaps not enough.

But no. She hadn’t missed Chas. Not in the way he implied.

Macey chose not to respond, and the question sat there between them, seeming to pulse in the silence.