“It’s not that simple,” Macey began, her eyes beginning to flash once more. “It’s not me I’m worried—”
“Ladies.” Sebastian lifted his hands and gave them his most charming smile, with just a touch of thrall in his eyes. “Let’s remain on topic. I find this all very interesting.”
Temple grumbled something under her breath that sounded like “keep your damned fangs sheathed,” but returned to the matter at hand. “Whatever you say, bossman. So I was looking at the original French writing and see—look here. The reference to what’s translated as ‘the dauntless one’ is ‘l’intrepid,’ so the article’s gender isn’t obvious—which is the correct way to write it if the noun begins with a vowel, as in this case. But if you look at the way it’s written, that apostrophe hangs low and looks a little like a small ‘a.’”
She looked up. “Apparently Capone—or whoever translated this prophecy for him—doesn’t know his French, and made a big assumption, which would have been disproved later on, if he’d cared to read that far.” Temple gathered up her papers with a satisfied smile. “Of course, you can argue that the gender is masculine for simplicity’s sake, and it refers to either sex…but if you look at the prophecy that applied to Eustacia Gardella’s death, you will see that isn’t the case. It’s clearly feminine.”
Sebastian glanced at Macey, who seemed to be just as pleased and impressed with Temple’s scholarship as he was. “Brilliant, cher,” he said.
“Yes,” Macey said. “Thank you, Temple. I admit I’m more than pleased to know I’m not the dauntless one, who’s going to be facing—what did you say?—the ‘root of malevolence…’ How did the rest of the verse go?”
“‘The root of malevolence shall marshal such power as never before known. It shall permeate far and deep, and only the dauntless one and his peer shall rise up to it.’”
“Yes. Right.” Macey’s voice was quiet and subdued, her eyes dark and wide. “And though it doesn’t refer to me, we’re now faced with the obvious question—if it’s not me, who is the dauntless one? And the dauntless one’s peer—which sounds just as ominous. And why does Al Capone believe he’s even involved in the prophecy?”
“I’m not the dauntless one,” Sebastian said immediately. “And though he stews with his own anger and fury, Woodmore’s not actually mad.” Macey must have heard the regret in his voice, for she choked back a laugh.
“Don’t look at me, Vioget,” said Temple. “I’m not the least bit dauntless.”
“There are definitely other words to describe you,” he muttered. “And you aren’t a Venator, anyway.”
“Praise God for small favors,” she said with heartfelt emotion. “Look, I think Al Capone is all washed up. He’s caught up in his own self-importance—but I didn’t see anything in those pages that indicates the prophecy applies to now. He probably saw the writ somewhere and seized on it without really understanding it. The man might run a bootlegging empire, but he ain’t the sharpest tack in the box.”
Perhaps Temple was correct…though if anyone were to embody the definition of a root of malevolence, it was Nicholas Iscariot.
SIXTEEN
~ The Web is Spun More Thoroughly ~
“Where da hell have you been?” Al Capone’s voice was low, shaking with fury and power. His porcine features seemed more puffy than usual—maybe a little too much pasta—and his eyes, though they sparked with anger, were half hidden by fleshy cheeks. His fingers were curled into fists on his cluttered desk and he was half out of his chair. “These disappearances of yours are a habit that stops now, or I’ll put you under house arrest and you won’t be able to take a damned piss without me knowing.”
Macey wasn’t cowed. She’d faced down a damned vampire prince last night. A mere mortal—no matter how strong—couldn’t beat that. Standing in the center of his office, she put her hands on her hips and fixed him with a cold gaze of her own. “I took care of Danny Fanalucci at the morgue, and at the same time, I had a little run-in with Nicholas Iscariot. It wasn’t a good night and I was in no mood to deal with you, Snorky, so I went and expended my energy elsewhere. I suggest you keep your temper tantrums to yourself.”
Her pronouncement about Iscariot seemed to have little effect on Capone, but his Brooklyn accent became thicker. “I don’t give a rat’s ass how bad a night you had, toots. You finish a job, you come back here, you report to me by dawn, and you wait for your next assignment. Dat’s how it goes.”
“I don’t think so. Not anymore.” She stalked across the room to his desk, bracing her hands on top to face him over it just as she had done to Sebastian a few hours ago. “Iscariot says my father is alive. Do you know anything about this?”
Capone jolted a little, surprise blanching his features. “No, and I wouldn’t believe any damned thing that creature says.”
She eased back a little, gritting her teeth. “I didn’t think you’d be any help. You can’t even get the damned prophecy correct,” she added under her breath, resisting the urge to throw that in his face.
Not yet. I’ll save that little fact for later.
“I’m only here to resign, Al. I’m done being on your payroll. You’re going to have to find another chump to protect you—or get off your fat ass and do it yourself. I’ve got Iscariot to deal with and you’re weighing me down like a big, cumbersome anchor.”
He didn’t look up at her. Instead, he seemed interested in a newspaper on the desk. “Oh, look here, doll. There’s a big exhibit—some Japanese artist, I can’t even say his name—opening at the Art Institute tomorrow night. Fancy party, they’re calling it a gala. I think I’d better attend.” He shoved the paper toward her. “Read the article. It looks very interesting.”
“I’m not interested in—” Macey stopped as her gaze landed on the paper. Hiroshige Exhibit to Open with Gala Hosted by Institute Director. But it wasn’t the headline that caught her attention and had her world slowing into something ugly and murky. It was the byline accompanying the article: J. Grady.
“The Tribune will probably be covering the event,” Capone said lazily, and slid the paper away from Macey’s side of the desk as he settled back into his seat for the first time since she’d entered. He still wasn’t looking at her, but there was a softness to his plump lips that was very close to a satisfied smile.
Macey turned away, her hands clenched so tightly she felt her fingernails denting her skin.
“Does that mean you ain’t resigning, then, doll?”
Her jaw hurt and her insides were in turmoil. Macey was truly caught between the Scylla and Charybdis. She gave him a look over her shoulder filled with loathing. “No, I’m not resigning.”
His low, complacent chuckle followed her as she stalked from the room.
Macey stared listlessly at the closet filled with all the clothing Al Capone had given her. In direct contrast to her mood, everything seemed to sparkle or shimmer. The fabrics were silk, gossamer, velour, and wool. The rich colors varied from blues and violets to reds and burgundies. There were black and white frocks too, but every shade for each article of clothing complemented her coloring.
A sour bile taste rose in the back of her throat as she yanked out a crimson dress. Might as well dress like the whore I am. The handkerchief-hemmed frock was the color of blood, and it sparkled with tiny red and silver beads in a flamelike pattern over the bodice.
She was digging ruthlessly through racks of scarves and headpieces when someone knocked on the door of her apartment. With a muttered curse, she glanced at the clock and saw that it was too early for Gus to be calling for her…and at the same moment, she recognized that an ugly tendril of cold had settled over the back of her neck.
Macey spun, snatching up her nearest stake, and approached the door. She looked through the peephole and her eyes widened with shock.
Still holding her weapon, she opened the door to one of Capone’s security team, who was standing next to Flora. He had a dull, glazed look in his eyes.
“Macey, let me in.”
“Release him first,” she told Flora, gesturing to the security guard, who, thankfully, showed no signs of fang marks.
Her friend—could she even call her a friend?—did as Macey requested, and as the man stumbled off toward the elevator, Flora stepped into the apartment.
“Whoa. Nice digs you got here, Macey.” There was admiration tinged with envy in Flora’s voice as she turned in a slow circle, taking in the luxurious surroundings. “Look at all those clothes!”
“What are you doing here?” Macey glanced at the door. Capone might sense the presence of an undead, and who knew what he would do then? “What do you want?”
“This cloche, for one!” Flora tugged the tight boiled-wool hat down over her head and admired herself in the mirror. It was one of Cookie’s creations, a mustard color with bright orange and red flowers and a swirl of aubergine feathers on one side. “This looks much better on me than it would on you, Mace. Can I have it?”