Roaring Shadows: Macey Book 2 (The Gardella Vampire Hunters 8)(16)

Macey felt the weight and power of his tiger-eye gaze from where she’d paused at the entrance. His eyes flashed gold, then became orange and red and hot. The tug was so strong, the sensation so sudden and intense, she felt as if she’d been dropped into a murky pond of warm water: everything around her slowed and became muted…lights, color, sound… She was trapped; she was falling. She was flushed and loose and—

“Well, look who the cat dragged in.” The tense words were accompanied by a tall, slender figure who stepped in front of Macey, interrupting the powerful thrall that had settled quite over her so unexpectedly.

She shook her head, heart thudding. How had that happened? What had happened? She blinked hard, and the world settled a little more.

“Temple,” Macey said, looking up at the elegant woman who’d positioned herself between her and Sebastian.

“I’d ask where the hell you’ve been for five months,” said the woman, whose dark, almond-shaped eyes scored over Macey with concern and some ire, “but we can catch up later.” And then she relaxed a little. “That’s not your blood.”

For the first time, Macey realized how she must appear—and that, in turn, made her understand why Sebastian had reacted the way he had. Maybe. There was blood all over the side of her neck and throat from Flora’s victim, which she’d slung over her shoulder. She shivered a little, for the dark intensity in his gaze had made even her—an experienced Venator, a friend and colleague of his—feel lost and out of control.

Sebastian was just as powerful, it seemed, as Nicholas Iscariot. Perhaps more so, for he wore the vis bulla—and had power from both evil and the divine.

“Even so,” Temple said, her slender, dark fingers tight around Macey’s arm, “let’s get you cleaned up.”

Macey still felt a little out of sorts as she went with the other woman to wash up in a private powder room.

“What happened back there?” she was compelled to ask as her companion handed over a wet cloth.

Temple met her eyes in the mirror. “You walked in smelling of fresh blood.”

Macey shook her head as she scrubbed at the blood, which had begun to dry in places and was sticky in others. It stained her clothing, and between that and the undead ash caught up inside the beading and lace, this outfit was definitely going in the trash. “That seemed an awfully strong reaction for someone who’s managed not to feed for more than a hundred years. Surely Sebastian doesn’t react that way every time he encounters fresh blood on a human.” She knew he kept a stash of fresh cow’s blood procured from the stockyards for his sustenance.

“Geez, sister, you don’t get it, do you? I said you walked in covered with fresh blood. It ain’t anyone else would have that affect on Sebastian Vioget but you, Macey Gardella Denton.”

She felt the blood drain from her face, then whoosh back up again, hot and fiery. “Oh.”

Temple didn’t seem angry as much as intent on making Macey understand. “You are the spitting image of Victoria Gardella, but with the eyes of Giulia Pesaro—a perfect combination of the two women he loved. The two women he’s sacrificed everything for—including his soul. It was because of them he allowed himself to be turned undead.”

Now she felt cold and unsteady. Nauseated. Chas had said something similar to her once… I warn you—don’t allow Vioget to see you bloody like that. He’d be on you in a heartbeat. The blood, and the fact that you’re the spitting image of your great-great-grandmother.

“Right,” Macey managed to say around the lump in her throat. The problem was, the heat in Sebastian’s eyes hadn’t been as frightening as it had been alluring. She still tingled a little, still felt the titillation of need…

Or maybe it was simply because she’d been lonely, separated, and angry for months. Because she’d finally learned what it truly meant to be a Venator: no attachments.

An image of Grady, his expression shocked and repulsed as it had been earlier today, floated in her mind. Macey ruthlessly pushed it away.

Temple thrust a wad of clothing at her. “Here. It’s probably a little long for you and’ll be tight over the tits, but it’s better than what you’re wearing. Smells like vampire and blood. Which means you must have a story, now that you’ve decided to grace us with your presence again.”

Before Macey could reply, Temple continued, “About Sebastian…look, sister, I’m worried about him. And you know me—I don’t worry too much about anyone. But lately, Sebastian’s been—”

The door opened. “He’s a bloody damned mess—no pun intended.”

“Lordy, Chas,” Temple snapped, partly in surprise, partly in irritation. “Macey’s in her altogethers and here you are, busting in for a peek.”

“Though it wasn’t my intent to peek,” he said, crowding into the small chamber with them both and bringing the scents of smoke, undead ash, and damp wool, “one can’t be looking a gift horse in the mouth—or so they say.”

Macey, whose cheeks had flushed hot yet again, had been in the act of finding the head and armholes of the new frock Temple had given her, and stood there in no more than her side-lacing brassiere, which covered her from breast to thigh, and briefs.

She spun around with a huff, partly to hide her cheeks as much as the rest of her, and scrabbled through the flimsy material of the dress to find the opening. “Go away, Chas.”

“Not a chance. You and I have some talking to do, lulu.”

She yanked the frock over her head and, locating the holes for her arms, turned back as the fabric fluttered down over her torso. It was tight around the bust, and would have been tighter if she hadn’t been wearing the side-lacer, which flattened her a little.

“Thanks, Temple,” she said, turning back and ignoring the new arrival. “I didn’t think about there being blood on me. I’ll be more careful next time.” Surprisingly, the pretty blue flower was still attached to her hair, out of place but still clinging to a few strands. She leaned toward the mirror to adjust it.

“That assumes there will be a next time,” Chas said. “Temple, you’d best go see to Vioget.” He gestured to the door.

The woman glowered at him. She was as tall as Chas, and her café-au-lait arms and legs were slender but shaped with smooth, lean muscles—unlike Flora’s, whose freckled white limbs were merely thin and gangly…yet that much more powerful. Temple appeared ready to argue, but there must have been something in Chas’s expression that caused her to fold, for though she gave him a sharp, displeased look, she reached for the doorknob.

“Better me than you, I suppose,” Temple muttered, and left in a swish of understated fury.

Macey took a step to follow her, but Chas moved neatly to block the way. “Why in such a hurry to escape? Are you afraid I’m going to want to finish our little scrap in the coatroom? You seemed raring to pummel me before.” His eyes lit with danger and challenge.

She gritted her teeth. “What do you want, Chas?”

“We didn’t finish our conversation.”

“I don’t know what more there is to tell you. I am committed to working with Al Capone, and—”

“Yet here you are, somehow having slipped the noose—so to speak—so very easily after claiming your inability to do so for five bloody months. One can only assume you misjudged the ease with which you could escape Capone’s influence.”

Grady’s face wavered in her mind, followed by the threatening, determined countenance of Al Capone. She might be smarter than he was, but he had Tommy guns and goons and contacts everywhere.

“I have to go back. I can’t stay.”

“Jesus, Macey, are you a Venator or are you a bloody damned girl? Don’t tell me you’re afraid of Al Capone, Venator or not!”

“It’s not me I’m afraid for, you jackass!” Macey was so furious, tears stung her eyes—which made her even more angry.

“Well it’s sure as hell not me or Vioget you’re protecting, so who the—oh. Jesus Christ. The Irish bastard, is it? You went and fell for the damned mick, didn’t you? Jesus, Macey! And as a result, Capone’s got his own little Venator bitch all decked out and collared up, ready to do whatever he says.”

Red tinged her vision and Macey grabbed him by the front of his coat. She whipped him to the side, slamming his broad-shouldered body into the corner as hard as she could. He crashed against the wooden wall, and it splintered a little beneath the force, but she was already shoving open the door.

She didn’t get a toe over the threshold when Chas yanked her back, dragging the door closed behind her in one breathless movement.

“We aren’t finished,” he panted as he pinned her against the wall, his fingers angling just beneath her throat and holding her there with a wide, flat hand. Her heart pounded against his palm.

“Take your hands off me,” she snapped. She had no fear of him—it was pure anger that fueled her. Anger, and something beneath her skin that was just fighting to be set free. Something that sizzled and tingled and burned.

“Only one hand is on you,” he taunted, showing her the other that was free. He swung neatly aside when her knee jacked up, grinning when she missed—but the smile faltered when she hooked her foot around his knee and yanked, thanks to a neat move Temple had shown her months ago. He didn’t fall, but she jolted him off balance and they tumbled into each other, crashing into the wall.