Roaring Dawn: Macey Book 3 (The Gardella Vampire Hunters 10)(9)

“I’ll let you two get caught up on all of the news back in New Orleans,” she said, giving Temple a sly look. “The exhibit looks fascinating.”

“I’ll find you later,” Temple said with a discreet wink.

Macey wandered off in the wake of a delighted, low-throated laugh from her friend, and saw no reason to hold back a smile of her own. Dr. Sevin was surely the reason Temple had been in such a good mood lately. Even with the loss of Sebastian and dark threats on the horizon, she had something to be happy about.

Macey’s smile faded as the reality of her own life set in. Hell. All she had was a vampire lord who was out to get her and seemed able to make her bleed at will, and the realization that she’d probably not live to see her twenty-second birthday.

Oh, and a father who might still be alive—if one could believe the likes of Nicholas Iscariot—and, by the way, hadn’t bothered to get in touch for more than thirteen years.

Macey’s life was just a meadow full of daisies.

But sulking, she told herself firmly as she paused in front of one of the photographs, was not the way to spend an evening when Cookie had worked so hard to fix her dress and do her hair all pretty for the occasion. She was here to have fun, and to be a walking display for the older woman’s fashion creations. And, if the opportunity arose, to shove her stake in a few undead hearts.

Macey had had her choice, and she’d made it—signed her life away to the Venators and the fight against immortal evil. She’d made the decision to be alone and never marry, to give up the chance of happiness and a “normal” life…to live in the world of difficult decisions and too much knowledge about the insidious evils on this earth.

And so perhaps she should focus her attention on saving the world instead of…other things. She should find Mayor Dever and attempt to speak with him, to see what she could discover about Nicholas and hope for clues of what he might be up to, and where he might be hiding.

She was about to turn from the photograph when the hair on the back of her neck stood up and she felt a swift rush of awareness.

And then she heard his voice.

The bottom dropped out of her belly and her heart kicked off beat, too fast and hard. Macey stilled, staring at the photograph with unseeing eyes as the air stirred, and she sensed him moving toward her from the left side of the exhibit hall. Everything prickled and went hot and warm and cold, and back again.

It took every ounce of control not to sneak a peek at him from out of the corner of her eye as he walked closer, speaking to someone—a female, it sounded like. Of course it would be a female. A man like Grady, with all that thick walnut hair, Irish charm, and expressive blue eyes, was irresistible to women.

Macey mentally lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. Then she blocked him out, waiting for him to pass by, and concentrated on the photo, really seeing it for the first time.

It was the stark image of a street, many stories below, shot with automobiles cruising along, pedestrians on the sidewalk, street lamps, benches…and when she realized how the photograph had to have been shot, her heart clutched again—but for the cameraman this time.

For the image was taken straight on, directly downward, as if the artist was suspended over the center of the street—not from a building or a balcony, but something that allowed—she checked the photographer’s name—S. Ellison to look directly over the middle of the street.

The sides of the buildings stretched down, down, down along the periphery of the photograph, neither side close enough for the picture to have been taken from either of them.

“And this one. Paris, I think?” The subtle Irish in a familiar voice slipped over her like a warm blanket.

Macey closed her eyes against the wave of grief and regret, then gritted her teeth.

Of course Grady and his companion had paused at the very place she stood. Out of all the images in the whole damned exhibit, they had to stop at the one she’d found. Because her life wasn’t interesting enough as it was. Fate had to stir the damned pot. Stir, stir, stir. Double, double, toil and trouble.

She tried to remember the rest of the verse as a distraction, but her traitorous mind focused instead on the conversation Macey didn’t want to hear. The bitch.

“Yes, it is indeed Paris. Not so far from Notre Dame, where I shot that triptych from behind the gargoyle.”

Macey edged to the side, but she couldn’t force herself to walk away. She remained, torturing herself—no, testing herself. It was a test.

Hell. If she couldn’t get through this moment, how did she think she could face down Iscariot—in his own lair?

Grady’s feet came into view next to hers; she didn’t dare look over to see anything higher than his polished black shoes (no spats) and about knee height of the loose gabardine trousers that were in fashion. They were midnight blue, the color of his eyes when he was sleepy and relaxed. The back of her throat burned.

He was close enough that his arm moved alongside hers, a mere three inches away. Close enough that she smelled him—his unique essence of musky aftershave balm, hair pomade, and simply Grady.

She moistened her lips, aware that her heart was thudding about as hard as it did when she was faced with the likes of Nicholas Iscariot. She wondered crazily which one was more dangerous to her: Grady or Iscariot. Because at the moment, she didn’t know.

“Oh, excuse me, miss,” he said, when he bent forward to get a closer look at the photo and nudged her with his elbow.

“Not at all,” Macey replied.

He straightened up, and as he did so, he looked at her for the first time. His eyes widened with what was probably appreciation—for she did look great tonight, and Grady certainly appreciated a fine set of legs, among other female attributes. And there was a flash of something else there—something hard or irritated. But not recognition.

No, there was nothing in those blue eyes that indicated he had any idea they’d once known each other—and in the most intimate of ways.

Her heart broke then, with the finality of it all—in a way it hadn’t on the night she asked Wayren to use the special golden disk to wipe Macey from Grady’s memory.

It really had happened. It really was done.

Over.

“I don’t know how she did it,” Grady said, still speaking impersonally to Macey, but clearly referencing the woman standing next to him—who, Macey suddenly realized, must be S. Ellison. “But it had to have been an extremely delicate maneuver, getting into position like that.”

Now he glanced at the photographer, and Macey’s attention followed him. Her mind went utterly still, for though S. Ellison was more than a decade older than Macey herself, the photographer was the most stunning woman she’d ever seen. And they were standing very close together, very companionably. Grady was even holding her arm.

In her late thirties, perhaps even forty, the photographer was tall, with true black hair and an air of worldly sophistication. She possessed olive skin and exotic features, and she looked the way Macey had always imagined Cleopatra would. The woman even wore eye makeup, dark kohl lining her almond-shaped eyes with a short, subtle curl at the outside corners—similar to the images in the recently discovered tombs of Egypt.

However, she was dressed in a very modern column of shimmering black beads and sequins with blinding white evening gloves fastened along the wrist with onyx beads. A small, diamond-shaped fascinator of dazzling white trimmed with ethereal black feathers was anchored over the left side of her head, its lower point just above an arched brow.

S. Ellison laughed, her eyes flickering over Macey, and replied, “That shot was certainly a challenge. But the most difficult part of it all was keeping the people on the street below from gawking while I was framing the photograph. I didn’t want a crowd looking up or people stopped on the walk. I wanted a shot that showed an everyday street.” She extended a hand to Macey as she continued in her slightly accented voice, as if English wasn’t her native language but she’d been schooled in England. “I’m Sabrina Ellison, one of the photographers—as you’ve no doubt guessed. Thank you for braving the threatening weather and attending the exhibit.”

Macey shook her hand, aware, so aware, of Grady’s attention sliding back and forth between them. The other woman’s grip was firm and confident, and Macey matched it with her own. “I’ve just arrived and this is the only picture I’ve seen, but I’m looking forward to enjoying more of them. Thank you so much for the background information on that one. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll let you finish your conversation, and I’ll move on to the next display.”

Macey was relieved to make her escape. That wasn’t too bad. Her pulse was still a little fast, and her belly a little nauseated, but that would soon settle. She’d leave Grady to his stunning, older lady photographer and go off to find the mayor.

At least his older lady photographer wouldn’t get him mauled by a vampire. Or worse.

And with that thought, Macey realized with a mixture of relief and disappointment that she didn’t feel any indication the undead were present tonight.

She turned to take a flute of carbonated cider from the tray of a passing waiter—desperately wishing for something stronger—when she caught sight of another familiar figure.