“Where is who—oh.” Flora paused, then gestured to the alley with a casual thumb. “There.”
Without another word, Macey strode past her, the handkerchief hem of her dress fluttering wildly about her calves. She made her way between the two dark buildings in the narrow passageway filled with garbage and other waste. The stench of blood was strong, and she could hear the gasping breaths of the man slumped against the wall.
As she went to examine him, she felt a presence behind her. The back of her neck grew eerily chilly, and Flora’s long, angular shadow fell over them.
Macey couldn’t bear to acknowledge her friend’s presence. Instead, she hoisted the man up, then flipped him over her shoulder. She staggered a bit at the sudden addition of weight, but once steady, it was no great task for her to stumble out of the alley toward the street.
“I had to eat,” Flora said. Her voice was petulant and defensive.
Macey closed her eyes for a moment, then walked past Flora, making her way back toward the busiest street. Blood from the victim seeped into her shoulder and along the loose material of her evening jacket, all the way through to her skin. She felt it oozing warm and wet, and the rusty stench filled her nostrils. The victim shuddered and gasped against her, his arms dangling, and occasionally one of his legs tightened as if he were trying to gather up the effort to free himself.
Once at the sidewalk, Macey let him slide down onto his feet. She held him upright with a strong arm as she waited to flag down a taxi. While she waited, she dug a vial of salted holy water from her pocketbook and dumped it onto the victim’s wounds. He bucked and shuddered as the water hissed into the night air, but Macey held him firmly.
Fortunately, it wasn’t long before a cab came along, and she whistled shrilly.
The vehicle pulled up and she wasted no time easing the man into the backseat. She tore off one of her stockings and wrapped it around the man’s neck to stanch the blood as much as possible. Then, instead of getting inside, she hobbled to the front on her shoeless foot and spoke to the driver. “He’s been injured. Get him to St. Joe’s Hospital right away.”
The cab driver opened his mouth to argue, but she tossed two dollar bills into the seat next to him—a very generous fare. “Do it, or Al Capone will find you. I have your car number.”
With this threat, she pulled back out of the cab and it squealed away. Tomorrow, she would go and check on the man.
But for now, she had to decide what to do about Flora.
Heavy of heart, ill in her stomach, Macey went back to where she’d left Flora.
But when she returned, her redheaded friend was gone.
Grady abruptly became aware of his surroundings. He was sitting on the floor, slumped against the wall, arms immobile behind him. There was a thudding—seemingly everywhere—reverberating both along the floor on which he sat, and the wall against which he leaned, as well as at his temple.
He forced his eyes open and realized the thudding was only on his temple, though it felt as if it were coming from everywhere.
The place was dim, with a soft yellow glow to his right. Shadows moved quickly, bending and lifting, carrying bulky objects. Grady immediately knew where he was—in the warehouse, where the counterfeiters had been. Where they planned to remove their equipment and burn the place down.
Damn.
If the thudding of the printing presses was gone, that meant the gang was finished, and it looked as if they were packing things up…
Grady pulled experimentally on his wrists and was rewarded with a soft rattle, and the feel of metal biting into his skin. Handcuffs. Better, in this case, than being confined with rope—though either option was workable.
He smiled grimly and, using the wall, began to struggle to his feet. As he did so, he realized the handcuffs were locked around the pipe he felt directly behind him, which ran up and down along the wall.
A trickle of cold swept down his spine. Had they meant to leave him here to burn when they set the place on fire? That would make them murderers as well as counterfeiters.
His jaw set against the dull thud of pain, he managed to pull himself upright. Being attached to the pipe made it slightly easier, because he used it for leverage. Once standing, Grady set about extricating himself from the handcuffs.
He bent at the waist and, before he began to work his cuffed hands down over his rear, he toed off both shoes. His stockinged feet made it easier for him to step out from between his bound wrists with first one foot, then the other. He was huddled on the floor by this time, due to the connection to the pipe, but once he’d stepped out from between his arms and turned, he was facing the pipe, hands in front of him.
After this, it was child’s play to release himself. Acutely aware that the sounds of movement had ceased, Grady slid the cuffs back down the pipe to the ground and retrieved one of his shoes. They were special shoes, designed by Mokana, and had hollow heels. Inside the heels were several useful objects, including lock picks.
When the great Houdini made his escapes from handcuffs and other bindings both in public and in private shows for law enforcement officers, he was normally stripped down to his skivvies. He was therefore unable to make use of special shoes like these, and found different ways to secrete the necessary lock picks on his person. But in this case, Grady’s captors had no reason to suspect he was outfitted with devices created for the business of magic and illusion.
In very short order—he timed himself once the pick was held tightly in his teeth, and was pleased it took fewer than eighteen seconds to pick the lock; a personal record for this type of padlock—the cuffs popped open. He was free. He put his shoes back on and tucked the cuffs into his pocket.
Now to catch some counterfeiters…and would-be murderers.
It was just about that time he smelled smoke…and when he looked over, he saw the dancing glow of flickering flames where the gang had been, only minutes earlier.
Damn.
He had a choice: go after his captors or attempt to retrieve some of the evidence they were trying to burn. Neither way was an obvious home run when it came to getting what he needed for the cops.
Grady ran toward the flickering shadows of flames, and when he got closer, he saw that the fire was relatively small—hardly larger than a generous campfire. They’d just started burning a pile of debris, but it was near a wooden bay and a pile of crates. He didn’t smell anything like accelerant.
Presumably, the “evidence” was somewhere in the fire, or nearby…and then he remembered the large tarp. Spinning, uncaring whether anyone was around to hear him—though he sincerely doubted it—he dashed back the way he’d come and found the canvas cloth. It was large and heavy and dusty—but exactly what he wanted.
Despite the canvas’s bulk and weight, Grady caught it up and ran back to the fire, which had grown significantly in size as it caught on to the old, dry wood. He unraveled the canvas and tossed it on top of the blaze…
And with a whoosh, it settled into place, smothering the flames. Panting, Grady waited, but all was still. The fire was out, smoke filtering out through wrinkles in the heavy, thick canvas, and he had reason—not for the first time in his life—to be thankful he’d been introduced to Harry Houdini at the beginning of the Great War.
Otherwise, Grady would certainly be on his way to a too-early grave.
EIGHT
~ Brawl in the Powder Room ~
As it was a Friday night, The Silver Chalice was packed with patrons. Macey could hear the sounds of revelry even from the street level, where a chalice-shaped newel topped the wrought iron gate that enclosed the stairwell leading from the sidewalk down to the entrance. That decoration was the only indication of the pub’s location, and one had to know it existed in order to look for it.
A bar owned and operated by an undead had no need of windows. It was also tucked down beneath the street for privacy and security, its entryway a dark, seedy-looking area surrounded by a no-nonsense wrought iron enclosure.
Macey pounded down the dark, narrow stairway in her clunky-heeled shoes. Noise and light spilled from the ajar door, and a bulky shadow stood, arms folded, in the underground alcove next to it. He was smoking a cigarette and spewed out a long stream of smoke as he eyed her.
She ignored the man and pushed open the door. Immediately, her attention went to the bar counter, where the tawny-haired Sebastian Vioget stood. He was a study in gold, honey, and bronze, from the tips of his thick, tousled hair to the warm glow of his still sun-kissed skin, to the topaz of his eyes. One of the most angelic-looking and handsome men Macey had ever seen—and he was an undead vampire.
Sebastian was pouring a row of drinks, his white shirt open at the throat and sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Amber-colored liquid—highly illegal, of course, and knowing Sebastian, most likely straight from France—splashed into the shot glasses. He never had to worry about The Silver Chalice being raided by the fuzz, for all he’d have to do was give the cops a good, long look in the eyes and they’d be putty in his hands.
Macey took a step over the threshold. The door swung shut behind, and the noise and smells of the pub surrounded her: loud conversation, laughter and whistles, music from a piano, and the scents of smoke, alcohol, popcorn, and peanuts.
Sebastian stopped suddenly, frozen in his movements, then fairly spun around toward her. Their eyes met across the room, over the heads of his patrons sitting at scarred, round tables and along the broad, glossy-topped bar.