“And…?” Macey was hoping she’d say something finite and specific, like: And Chas is the dauntless one. Or, We were wrong—the root of malevolence doesn’t refer to Iscariot after all.
Not that Macey thought for one minute there could be anyone more malevolent at the root than Judas Iscariot’s vampiric son.
“And…I’ve come to no further conclusions. But I think it’s a mistake to rely too heavily on what the damned prophecies say, anyway, sister.”
Macey nodded grimly. “I agree. The only reason we even know about it is because of Al Capone, and he was wrong anyway.”
“It still tickles me, in a laughable way, that Capone thought he was the dauntless one’s other half.”
Macey’s smile was grim. “But not that he thought I was the dauntless one.” She sighed. “Could he be right after all? About me?”
“We’ve been through this. The dauntless one is a man, but either way, you don’t fit the description. You did not root from ‘the deepest bowels of madness and grief,’ sister. Your parents loved you and cared for you—”
“Until Max Denton left me.” She found it difficult to refer to her father by anything but his formal name. “After my mother was mauled and torn to shreds. He sent me away.”
Temple gave her a sympathetic look. “And look what you’ve done to Grady as well.”
Macey gritted her teeth and sent her friend and mentor a very dark look. “At least he doesn’t remember me. I still remember my father.” She watched Temple, who was once again industriously drying glasses. “Regardless, I’m going to forget about the damned prophecy. I want to find out where Iscariot’s lair is, and then I’m going to figure out how to get in there and take him. I’m not waiting for him to make the next move. This is my game. Not his.”
Temple nodded in approval, and lifted her glass in a sharp toast. “Damn right. Time we women took charge and showed those men what we can do.”
Macey grinned and clinked her glass against the other. “You said it, sister.”
+ + +
The weather was brewing what looked like an ugly storm when Macey and Temple left Aunt Cookie’s hat shop, dressed in their finery.
“Hope the storms hold off until we get home,” Temple said, looking at the dark clouds with a jaundiced eye.
Thunder rumbled in the distance, and Macey shook her head. “I doubt it. But it’ll keep any vampires off the streets tonight—or at least, their victims off the street,” she added as they drove along in what had been Sebastian’s automobile.
The photography exhibit that had Temple—and, it appeared, a good portion of the wealthy and powerful of Chicago—over the moon was being held in the Preston Bradley Hall of the stunning Chicago Library.
The building boasted two domes and several grand staircases with elegant archways. Macey, who’d been living in Chicago for less than two years, had never been inside the ornate structure, and she couldn’t help but gawk as she and Temple alighted from the car at the entrance on Washington Street.
“This is one of the reasons I wanted to come tonight,” Temple said, looking up as they passed through the arched portal and doors framed in bronze. “I needed an excuse to see the place.”
The lobby off Washington was three stories tall, with a vaulted ceiling. The walls were constructed of white marble and finished with mosaics in intricate organic designs. The glass, mother-of-pearl, and stone mosaic pieces were all the colors of the rainbow, yet the white marble overruled their colorfulness and made the lobby feel light, open, and airy despite the number of people crowding within.
“It’s a shame Aunt Cookie couldn’t attend after all,” Macey said as they handed their tickets to the doorman who stood at the base of grand staircase made of pristine white marble. It was studded with green marble medallions and more mosaics all the way up its broad flight. “After she spent all that time and effort getting us dressed, it’s too bad her hip began to act up.”
Macey’s mid-thigh red frock glittered and burned from the swirling scarlet, orange, and gold beading that shimmered with every movement. She looked like the blaze in a fireplace, Cookie had told her as she adjusted a three-inch-wide crimson headband around Macey’s forehead. On one side was a hand-sized rose, each red petal edged with scarlet glitter so it too sparkled as her dark head bobbed. A flowing evening jacket of gossamer fabric the shade of honey and shot with gold thread covered her shoulders, which were bare except for two skinny straps. She also wore blood-red gloves that reached past her elbows and were embroidered with black and gold sequins.
With a getup like that, Macey didn’t even need any jewelry, but she did wear two large black studs that glinted at her earlobes.
“When Aunt Cookie’s hip goes out, there isn’t much for it but to put that stinky old Cajun poultice on it and let ’er set,” Temple replied as they started up the grand staircase. The Tiffany glass dome, the focal point of the hall, loomed above, and the sparkle of stars and moonlight filtered through the glass. “Maybe a voodoo charm to help, but I let her handle that part of it.” She flashed a bright white smile. “Anyway, I promised her we’d hand out her business cards if anyone asked about our costumes.”
Temple wore a stunning shift of honey, gold, and amber, which fairly glowed against her rich cocoa skin. A slender headband studded with palm-sized peonies and an elegant arch of matching feathers completed her look, along with chunky black shoes sporting glittering gold sunburst buckles.
Preston Bradley Hall was crowded with people and tall round tables that echoed the curved walls of the room, as well as freestanding easels and temporary dividers that had been constructed to display the photography.
The exhibition was an elegant affair, with white-gloved waiters weaving through the maze of people and stationary objects, holding trays at the ready. In the corner, a string quartet played something more classical than jazzy.
Temple snagged a tall flute of something that sparkled like pale sunshine, and Macey looked at it in astonishment.
“Surely that isn’t what I think it is,” she murmured as Temple lifted the glass to drink. “Mayor Dever wouldn’t allow alcohol to be served so blatantly, would he?”
Dever was known in the press as “Decent Dever,” because although he was a “wet” person—he didn’t support the Volstead Act—he did his best to enforce Prohibition because it was his job to uphold the law. Much as many of the Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms team of the government did.
Unfortunately, the same could not be said for more than half of the Chicago Police Department, and this conflict made the city a hotbed of violence, crime, and danger. Not to mention rife with bribery and much looking-of-the-other-way.
“It’s only carbonated cider,” said Temple, her slender, arched brows lifting. “Although I wouldn’t be surprised if the real thing was around here somewhere. Even Dever…well, I expect if you said the right thing to the right pers—Well, hello there, darling.” Her voice dropped to a purr, causing Macey to look over in surprise.
A handsome, broad-shouldered man, dressed smartly in a pinstriped suit, snowy-white shirt, and spats, had taken Temple’s hand. He bowed, lifted her hand to press a kiss to the back of it, then raised his face—still holding her slender fingers in his darker ones.
“Miss Temple,” he said, his brown eyes warm and liquid from behind round spectacles, “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen anything so ravishing in my life as you tonight.” His voice, like his skin, was deep and dark as molasses, and tinged with a bit of Southern. His wiry hair was close-cropped and held a light sheen from scented pomade. Something like pine. “You are indeed a sight for sore eyes.”
“You’re looking mighty fine yourself, Joseph,” replied Temple in a low, throaty voice. “Apparently you managed to slip away from your patients tonight, after all.”
“No one seemed to need a puncture sewn up or an appendix removed, so I felt it was safe to leave on time. And I had a compelling reason to make it here.” He smiled warmly. “I’m delighted you were able to use the tickets.”
Macey gaped while the two looked at each other as if they were about to devour the other, and all at once things began to fall into place. It was no wonder Temple had been so insistent about attending the exhibition.
She stood for a moment, feeling the absolutely palpable sizzle of tension between the two, before her friend seemed to recall her presence.
“I’m sorry, darling,” Temple said, taking Macey’s hand and pulling it toward her as she slipped her arm around Macey’s waist. “This is an old friend of the family’s, who has recently moved to Chicago. N’Awlins’ loss is our gain. Please meet Dr. Joseph Sevin, the new chief of surgery at Provident Hospital. Joseph, this is my dear chum, Miss Macey Denton.”
Macey noticed her friend’s voice had slipped into more of a Southern lilt since she’d found her old friend, and she smiled. Clearly “friend of the family” was a euphemism for something much more interesting. She beamed at Dr. Sevin, who was just as charming and gallant when he bent over her hand—though Macey noticed he released her fingers more quickly than he’d done Temple’s.