Roaring Shadows: Macey Book 2 (The Gardella Vampire Hunters 8)(23)

But she’d changed.







Chas felt the tension ooze from Macey’s body as she finally let go of everything and slumped further into the corner. Her fingers uncurled and her eyes drifted closed. He set his teeth grimly and continued to watch the shadows and streets, to read the back of his neck and listen to his instincts…watching and waiting for danger in both mortal and immortal form.

So Max Denton was still alive…if Iscariot could be believed. He wondered what the hell Denton was thinking, abandoning and ignoring his daughter for more than a decade.

Sometimes life is too painful to remain part of it, isn’t it, Chas?

Wayren’s words to him—oh, more than a century ago, after everything had happened with Narcise—suddenly rang in his mind.

Well, he couldn’t argue with that. He was fortunate Wayren had given him an out, a detour…an escape. He wondered what Max Denton’s escape would be. A dark, violent, solitary life…then death?

Well, hell. Just like the one Chas was living.

The car eased to a halt in front of St. Anselm’s Church. The cross atop its squat spire made a nice shadow in the middle of the street, and, occasionally, that shadow fell across the window of Chas’s upper-floor apartment in the building next door. A nice little deterrent for the undead.

Chas slipped Ned a few bills as well as a message for Vioget. Of course, Sebastian paid the man a salary, but Chas saw the value in having his own relationship with the driver. At the sound of Ned’s murmured thanks, Macey blinked and shook her head as if to clear away the cobwebs, but Chas didn’t risk the delay of waiting for her to haul herself to her feet. Instead, he tugged her out of the backseat and ushered her through the hidden doorway that led to his place.

It wasn’t until he got her inside his small apartment and turned on the lights that he saw the blood. It wasn’t as if there was that much of it…it was just where it was. In a long, neat line down the front of her dress, bisecting her torso. And there was a rusty ring around one breast.

“Christ,” he said to cover his shock, “this is getting to be a damned habit of yours, arriving at my place looking half dead.”

She looked up at him from under a tangle of dark curls, her eyes gleaming with something almost unholy. Her fingers trembled a little as they gripped the back of the sofa, but her voice was strong. “Let’s be honest, Chas. I’m here because you want me here—not because I need to be here, or because I need you.”

“Is that so?” He pulled out the glass Mason jar labeled “vinegar” from under the tiny sink in his kitchenette and unscrewed the top. The whiskey—good stuff, but not as good as what Vioget served—sloshed into two fairly clean glasses as silence reigned. “Drink up.” He shoved one toward her.

To his surprise, she stepped away from the sofa and leaned against the counter, taking the glass. She swallowed a healthy sip, watching him over the rim with those big, dark eyes. When she lowered the glass, her lips glistened invitingly and she was still looking at him. Very pointedly.

“Is that an invitation?” he said.

“The life of a Venator is a lonely one. Or so you’ve pointed out to me numerous times.”

She threw his words back at him without coyness or invitation, and Chas mentally shook his head as he lifted his glass and drank. Damn, she was getting to be a handful. Give the woman a vis bulla and a pair of hot, velvety brown eyes—not to mention a reason to go a few verbal rounds with him—and he was very nearly in over his head.

He itched to touch her…no, to be more specific, he itched to shove her against the wall, tear off that stained dress, and drown their respective sorrows in a blur of heat and passion. And from the look of her expression, she wouldn’t mind some mindless sex one bit.

“We both know it’s been brewing for a while,” she said, holding his eyes with hers. They were firm, cool, steady—almost emotionless. “You and me. And now, here we are, with no Sebastian and no Temple and no Capone. No one to interfere, and the sun’ll be rising any minute now—so no more hunting the undead tonight. So why don’t you follow through on your offer and show me your vis bulla, Chas? And maybe I’ll show you mine.”

“I’ve already seen yours, lulu. However…” He set his glass down with a soft, deliberate thunk. Still watching her, holding her gaze meaningfully, he removed the drink from her grip, saying, “Let me take that for you. It’d be a waste to spill such good contraband.”

He’d barely released the glass onto the counter—sloppily enough to slosh a bit—than he was dragging her to him by a fistful of her dress.

Macey met his mouth eagerly, her lips firm and mobile. She tasted of whiskey and salty perspiration, and her powerful, lithe body felt terrifyingly slight in his arms. She was damp and a little sticky, scented with blood and sweat—probably even tears as well—but she was warm and ready, soft and curvy, and the essence of female musk clinging to her skin was enough to make Chas exhale with relief. He was very ready for this…and was growing more so as she pressed against him, her hands gripping his shoulders, her hips flush against his.

Though small and slender, Macey was as strong as he, so Chas had no compunction about being a little forceful, a little rough, and a lot demanding. He kissed her hungrily, delving with a strong, thrusting tongue and nibbling at her lips. She seemed to enjoy it, gasping a surprised laugh against his mouth when he yanked her dress open. Buttons flew, and the lace and cotton tore a little when he pulled the neckline down over her shoulders. They were delicate white shoulders…marred by two small wounds on one side of her neck.

Chas paused when he saw them, and then noticed the slender red scar trailing from the top of her sternum down behind her undergarment…and another around the front of one breast, encircling the areola. Even in the hazy moment of lust and desire, he recognized the marks weren’t exactly fresh…yet they still oozed blood.

Macey didn’t seem to appreciate the halt to things, for she took matters into her own hands and began to work at the buttons down the front of his shirt. “Where is it, Chas?” she muttered, pulling the cotton down over his shoulders and then plucking his undershirt from the waistband of his trousers. “Where is your hard-won vis bulla?”

But she’d already found it—her fingers quick and nimble, sliding under the cotton of his shirt to capture the small silver cross he wore pierced through the upper lip of his navel—just as she did. When she touched it, Chas felt a sizzle shoot through him that had less to do with lust than blatant power. He gave a little laugh as she gasped in surprise—for a Venator touching a vis bulla would always cause a spark of energy—and pressed her hand against it and the vibrating muscle of his belly. The power leapt between them again, sending a strong rush of pleasure funneling sharply to his straining cock.

He released her hand and brought Macey up close along his body, angling one of her thighs along his hip so she could feel his arousal as he deftly unlaced her brassiere. She was panting a bit, soft, sexy little sounds that made him want to yank off the rest of her clothes and toss her on the sofa and make her moan a little louder.

When he peeled her undergarment down far enough to uncover her breasts, he gave a low hum of delight at the curvy, perky sight. Macey shifted impatiently against his johnson, using the waist of his trousers to pull him closer, even grinding against him a little. Well, a lot, actually.

“Whoa there, lulu,” he murmured, shifting away a little as he slid a hand up under her dress to bare a slender, muscular leg. She was warm and soft, and he itched to touch her right where she was lush and hot and wet. “Let’s not rush things.”

“I don’t mind rushing things,” she told him, reaching for the fastening of his trousers and ripping it open.

For the first time in a while, Chas looked down at her face. Even through the fog of lust and need, he registered the expression there: dark, set, determined, and needy.

Just the same, he supposed, as the look on his own countenance. “All right then,” he muttered, propping himself against the back of the sofa and pulling her along with him. His trousers sagged and he let them fall around his ankles as she dragged his boxers out of the way. Skirt high on her thighs now, his hands holding the flowing fabric out of the way, he hoisted her up onto him as she gripped his shoulders.

“Oh,” she said as he slid home, deep and slow, into her warmth. The sound penetrated his fog of lust and he wanted to drag more from her: more pleasure, more soft gasps and sighs, more nails digging into his skin, more hot, sleek kisses.

He moved, carefully at first, but that foolish restraint lasted only a moment. She was clearly impatient, and so was he, and Chas saw no reason to hold back. Macey used her feet for leverage against the sofa, and they slipped into a fast, hard rhythm laced with sighs and moans of building pleasure.

Chas saw her eyes flutter just before she came, her head tipping back as she gripped his shoulders, her mass of dark curls bouncing and tumbling around her cheeks and chin. As she shuddered against him, hard and sharp, he let go with a long, low moan of relief and pleasure, and it mingled with her own gust of release.