Roaring Shadows: Macey Book 2 (The Gardella Vampire Hunters 8)(11)

“Capone will feel it too. I’d better get back to him first.”

“You do what you have to do,” he said, much too politely. “By all means. Take care of your boss. I’m going to dust some undead before they do any damage of their own.”

“If I don’t see you again tonight—”

But he was already gone before she could tell him where and how to communicate with her in the future. Jerk. Macey shook her head and hurried out of the coatroom.

Though she and Chas were both aware of the mortal danger the presence of vampires portended, the other attendees at The Music Castle had no idea their lives were in jeopardy. When Macey came out of the coatroom and returned to the lobby, everything was as it had been before: gangsters standing about watching for trouble they had no concept how to combat and probably wouldn’t recognize anyway, a few knots of people chatting. As if to punctuate the easy mood, beyond the two sets of double doors that led to the club itself crooned the jumpy, happy beat of a jazzy clarinet.

“Miz Macey,” said one of the bodyguards as he opened the door to the club for her.

As she stepped over the threshold and into the hall swelling with music as well as spectators, Macey felt as if she’d moved into another world. It was a full-sense experience, being surrounded by this bold, new style of music, particularly as it was being performed by one of the most talented musicians in the country. With its low, blue and purple lighting fringing the edges of the room and dangling from random lamps, and the round tables packed close to each other and the stage, Capone’s club immediately felt close and intimate. Add to that the low, gravelly voice of Mr. Armstrong as he sang something about a kiss to build a dream on, and the smooth accompaniment of piano, trombone, and clarinet, and the experience was stunningly sensual.

The pungency of cigarette and cigar smoke wafted through the air, weaving through the scents of lemon or peppermint pomade and floral colognes. Silhouettes of short-haired women, their nape-baring tresses topped by feathered bands or studded with glittering combs, displayed elegant necks and delicate shoulders bared by sleeveless shifts or slipping necklines. Gems glittered like random stars, picking up the cool lights as hands, wrists, and throats moved. The men sitting next to them sported their own diamond-studded rings, as well as shiny, slicked-back hair that seemed be frosted by moonlight when the lights from onstage filtered over the crowd.

Macey felt the beat of the music filling her, mingling with the heartbeat deep inside her chest, and she was reminded of a similar sensation when she’d first encountered the undead. When a vampire would focus his or her glowing red eyes on her, luring her into a thrall, their breaths mingled, and her heartbeat seemed to pound along with that of her adversary. The music took hold of her like that, for Macey had never before had occasion to hear such talent, such perfectly sensual music performed by such a master musician.

But hers was only a short lapse into the sensations of the moment, for that eerie, forbidding chill still burned into the back of her own bare neck.

Macey had hesitated just inside the door, but as Mr. Armstrong finished his song and the audience erupted into enthusiastic applause, cheers, and whistles, she made her way quickly to the table where she’d left Capone.

Not front and center of the stage, but at the right corner, directly adjacent to the musicians. As she approached, Satchmo was still bowing and accepting his adulations, but then he picked up his coronet and began to tap out the countdown for his Hot Five to swing into the next song. She recognized “Gut Bucket Blues.”

“Where da hella you been?” Capone’s fingers were tight around Macey’s wrist as she came up next to him, before she even slid onto the edge of her chair. “You got things under control?”

She didn’t bother to respond to his first question, but she did pull her arm away with a sharp twist. “I will,” she said, using the opportunity to turn back and scan the audience from her front-row vantage point. Now where was that chill coming from…? “I just came back to make certain—”

Her eyes lit on a table in the back. The cold, prickly chill suddenly became overwhelming, rushing through her body as if she’d been plunged into the lake on a gray day.

Oh no.

She ignored Capone’s hissed demand as she rose from his side and woodenly, blank-mindedly began to make her way back up and around the audience.

No.

It can’t be.

But why wouldn’t it be?

She made her way toward the group of men and women. Their round table was tucked back into a dark corner, as if to leave them to their privacy, where any sort of shenanigans could happen unseen by anyone else in the club. As if to allow its occupants to watch over the crowd as well as the musicians. As if to allow each of them ample opportunity to carefully choose and hunt his or her own prey.

And in the center of the table sat a tall, gangly redheaded woman, no older than Macey.

Flora. Once her best friend and closest confidante.

Now, an immortal undead.





SIX

~ The Dark Pangs of Regret ~



Macey gripped her stake, aware that her stomach was fluttering uncomfortably. Her palms were damp, and she drew in a deep breath.

It was Flora. Her friend…and now an immortal half-demon.

Someone she was bound to kill.

Every time she thought about it, Macey felt like throwing up.

Nevertheless, she approached the table of undead exuding confidence. At least, she was fairly certain everyone around the table was a vampire—but it was hard to tell for certain with so many of them sitting there. There might have been a mortal or two in the group of six.

One thing was certain: the back of her neck felt as if a brick of ice had lodged there, and the eeriness of the sensation crept into her belly.

Or maybe that was simply because she was going to have to destroy her best friend.

She adjusted her hold on the stake, hiding it among the loose folds of her flimsy evening jacket as she walked up behind one of the men at the table. He sat two people over from her friend.

“Hello, Flora.”

When she turned toward the greeting, Flora didn’t appear surprised. “Hello, Macey. What a pleasant surprise.” Her words were neither blatantly false, nor falsely polite. Her eyes looked normal, and there wasn’t a fang in sight.

Macey had a moment—just a moment—to wonder if she was wrong. If somehow she’d been fooled or tricked, and that Flora was still Flora: funny, cheerful, gawky, and loud. But the moment of crazy hope was fleeting. She knew better.

“I’m going to have to ask you and your friends to leave. Immediately,” Macey said, her hand resting on the back of the chair in front of her.

“We’re not going to be leaving,” replied one of the others at the table—a short, dark-skinned woman with a jeweled red comb holding the hair out of her face. “We like the jazzzzz.” She smiled, drawing out the last word, but there was no warmth in her grin. A flicker of red showed in her eyes for a moment, tugging at Macey’s belly, but Macey was easily able to pull her gaze away.

The occupant of the chair she was holding twisted lazily in his seat, looking up and around at her. “Don’t be a bore,” he drawled. “Have a seat here, doll.” He patted his lap as he made his gaze hot and red and inviting, pulling at her as if he’d slung a rope around her waist. “Don’t be shy. I don’t bite.” He laughed, but the sound was absorbed by the music filling the air. His hand closed over hers, which still rested on the back of his chair. “Come on now, doll. Give me a warmup.” His grip was uncomfortably tight.

“No thanks.” Macey moved with a quick, spare gesture, plunging her stake down over the shoulder angled toward her, right into his heart. Poof. The vampire exploded into soft, vile-smelling ash as the rest of the table looked at her in shock and surprise, their eyes wide and red. “I told you to leave. I’d prefer not to make a scene, but I will if you don’t heed my warning.”

“All right.” Flora stood suddenly and began to make her way around the table toward her. Her hands were raised as if to ward off her former friend from launching another attack. “All right. We’re going.” She glanced out into the club, then turned back to the table of the people Macey assumed were Flora’s new friends.

None of them were familiar to Macey, and at first blush, they all seemed to be relatively young and inexperienced vampires—at least compared to the likes of the dusted Count Alvisi, and the terrifying Nicholas Iscariot.

“Let’s go. She’ll just ruin the evening if we stay,” Flora was saying.

“Who the hell is she?” one of them muttered as the five remaining vampires pulled to their feet.

“Hurry,” Flora muttered, pushing at one of her companions.

Macey looked over and saw Chas working his way through the tables. Flora had been looking in that direction—was that the reason she’d capitulated so easily? He had been with Macey when they first encountered Flora as an undead—when Macey had attempted to slay the ginger-haired girl and hadn’t succeeded.

Had Flora seen that Macey wasn’t alone, and realized she and her friends would be no match for two or more Venators?

No one else in the audience had seemed to notice the slaying of a vampire in their midst, but if a full-out brawl occurred, they certainly would. If a fight erupted, everyone who carried a revolver—which meant ninety percent of the men in here, and probably a surprisingly high number of the women—would pull out the weapon and start shooting. They’d have no idea at what or whom they were shooting—or that vampires were impervious to bullets—and who knew how many people would be caught in the crossfire.