Roaring Dawn: Macey Book 3 (The Gardella Vampire Hunters 10)(35)

She didn’t have much time; her head was light and tremors had begun to take over from deep inside. She sagged against Iscariot, doing her best not to gag at the feel of his stringy muscles—and other parts she preferred not to think of—pressing against her.

“Macey,” Max called out, desperation in his voice.

She couldn’t see him, but the ugly noises coming from behind indicated he was battling for his life—possibly even unarmed at this point. She wished she could somehow give him a look—a sign, hope—to let him know she was all right.

But she wasn’t all right, she realized murkily. The blood streamed from both wounds, and Iscariot was holding her upright more than she was standing on her own. Her vision swam, her muscles suddenly protested, and when Iscariot gave a soft chuckle in her ear, she hardly shuddered.

“I don’t see any reason to waste more time,” the vampire murmured. “Let me welcome you to your new life, Macey Denton.”

And he slid his fangs into the side of her neck.





SIXTEEN

~ Fear and Regret ~



Max fought like a berserker, trying to free himself from the four undead who now held him, all the while watching in horror as Iscariot gathered his daughter up like a lover—then plunged his fangs into her.

Macey. Dear God, Macey…

How could he have miscalculated?

How could he have thought she’d be strong enough to face Iscariot?

How could he have made such a mistake?

He shouldn’t have left her all these years. He should have been here when she took the vis, when she learned who she was. He should have been the one to face Iscariot…not his daughter.

Not his daughter.

And now it was too late. Now, he’d fairly sent her to her death—no, not to her death. To her undeath. Unless he could save her before Iscariot drained her dry and forced his evil, undead blood upon her.

Max had one stake left, only one, and he couldn’t quite reach it in his other boot.

His vision had gone red with fury, and he punched and kicked like a wild man. But the four undead were vicious and strong, and they tore at him with long nails—though none had gotten close enough to bite.

He whipped his aching head back into the face of an undead behind him, then pretended to collapse in the grips of the remaining ones, becoming a dead weight in their hands. In that brief, quiet heartbeat of a moment, as one grabbed his head to hold him still for a bite, he drew on every bit of strength and cunning he possessed, every bit of divine assistance that came from the vis bulla, and asked for help.

And when it came, it was like a white light, shooting through him, exploding into each of his limbs. All at once, he had the strength to vault upright, to whip himself—and his clinging attackers—in the direction of the sunshine block, forcing them to follow with him, to stumble and fall into the sanctuary of light.

They screamed, releasing him just before—or, in the case of one, just after—the light hit them. That was all he needed; the stake was already in his hand, and Max spun like a dervish, striking out while they still roiled with agony.

Plunge…stab…shove.

Poof, poof, poof.

Max spun around, dashing the hair and sweat from his eyes, to see Iscariot and Macey, still locked in that horrifying embrace. She was moving, struggling against him, her arms trapped between herself and the vampire—blood streaming from the wound at the back of her shoulder, the wound Max himself had delivered.

He shoved back the guilt and self-loathing—there’d be time for that later—and bolted toward them.

He was almost there when the last vampire, a large, solid one who seemed to come from nowhere, grabbed him. Max swore, twisting and fighting; he’d get there, by God, he’d get there—there where he could strike, there where he could plunge the stake into Iscariot’s heart. He inched and fought to get closer, closer…fighting all the while.

He bucked and struggled, uncaring that he was held, uncaring that fangs were tearing into his own shoulder. His mind was focused on one thing: the target of Iscariot’s back. His vampire attacker had him from behind, strong hands grabbing him by the hair and gripped the arm that held the stake.

Max didn’t even try to use his weapon on him. He focused, twisted, turned, until finally, at last he had the target in sight.

Iscariot’s back—the stake would go right through to his heart.

In smooth, rapid movements, Max flipped up the stake from his imprisoned limb and caught it with his free one, then jammed it point first backward into the face of the undead behind him to catch the bastard off guard. The vampire screamed, loosened his hold—but not altogether—and Max readied the stake for his last chance.

Just as he saw Macey lift her head from where it sagged to the side—she seemed to be saying something to Iscariot, and the creature drew back his head to respond—Max whipped the pike forward, flinging it in a straight, smooth shot toward the back side of Nicholas Iscariot’s heart.

Then he shoved his attacker into a square of sunlight.





SEVENTEEN

~ Like Father, Like Daughter ~



Despite the pain and murkiness from her wound, Macey had managed to slip a stake from beneath her blouse into one hand.

Iscariot had been so determined to taunt her father, and to sink his fangs into her, that her contortions had been unnoticed—or assumed to be struggles.

Her vision wavered, and she felt the blood draining from her body—though the stake that had impaled her shoulder held off a full stream of it—but she held on to that slender wooden talisman, waiting for the right moment. The right position. The strength to use it.

She heard Max’s cry of horror when Iscariot bit into her, and the sounds of his struggle—flesh against flesh. But moments later, the scent of undead ash was strong in the air and she felt a leap of pride and relief.

The stake was in her hand, in position—all she had to do was use it.

“Nicholas, darling,” she said in a weak voice—it wasn’t difficult to feign a weak voice—“I have a question for you, about all of this.”

He withdrew his fangs and pulled back to look down at her, as if he really meant to answer her question. Blood dripped from the corners of his mouth, and his eyes were slitted with lust. He smiled down at her, and that was all she needed.

Macey shifted and gave a little upward thrust…and plunge.

In went the point…and right then, Iscariot jolted sharply against her, into her stake—as if he’d been shoved from behind at the very same moment.

And that was when Macey saw her father, just beyond Iscariot’s shoulder…and the second spike that had gone into him from the back.

She shoved Iscariot away, stumbling backward as the root of malevolence, the condemned evil, the lord of vampires, froze with shock at being skewered—not once, but twice, simultaneously, by the father-daughter Venator team.

“Goodbye, Nicky,” she said, panting, shaking, bleeding…

And then her knees gave out.

Someone caught her—Max, of course—and the next thing she knew, he was holding her tightly, hugging her.

Her father—whom she hadn’t touched or embraced for thirteen years—was holding her, and his face was wet with tears—or maybe it was sweat—and the big, powerful man was trembling. Possibly even crying.

Was she dreaming? Was she dead?

“Macey, God, I’m so sorry,” he said into the top of her head. “We need a damned doctor!” he shouted, heedless of the proximity of her ear.

“A doctor?” Macey mumbled. “I don’t need a doct— Ugh!” Her eyes bolted wide and she shrieked as something splashed over her wounds—salted holy water.

And then she fainted.



+ + +

After dousing her liberally with salted holy water, Max reluctantly relinquished Macey to the surprisingly efficient Dr. Fintucket and his staff.

In so doing, he was also required to brush off the insistence that he be taken off in an ambulance and treated as well.

Bugger that.

If they’d been back in Rome, Macey—and possibly Max himself—would have gone to the Consilium to be treated by the Venator medic—a descendant of the excellent Ylito, who’d saved Victoria Gardella’s life, among many others.

As it was, Max would have to rely on so-called modern medicine…at least initially. The bloody stake he’d embedded in his daughter would have to be removed, she’d be stitched up, and Max would make certain to replenish and use his supply of salted holy water and the salve the Venators favored to help their wounds heal even more quickly than usual.

She’d live, thank God.

Thank God.

And, almost as importantly, Nicholas Iscariot was dead. Max could hardly believe it.

“Max!”

He turned to see Savina rushing toward him. She threw herself into his arms, heedless of the blood and sweat plastered all over his skin. “Oh, God, thank God, Max! You’re safe!”

He squeezed her tightly, inhaling the scent of her hair—clean and fresh, and untainted with the blood and violence in which he’d been immersed for more than an hour.

She was safe too. He drew in a shaky breath.

“And Grady,” Savina began—not the best way for their reunion   to start, he thought, and eased up on his grip of her—“he’s going to make it. They’re taking him to the hospital—he’s alive.”