“Why are you here?” Macey said from between clenched teeth. She considered setting down her stake, but thought better of it. The brick of ice at the back of her neck reminded her to stay on her guard.
Flora snatched off the hat and gave her a venomous side-eye look. Macey was taken aback by the expression there, but then it disappeared so quickly she wondered if it had just been a natural part of Flora’s undeadness or a trick of the light.
“What did you do to Iscariot?” She flounced over and sat on the bed, disregarding the blood-red gown Macey had just laid out.
“Why do you ask?”
Flora huffed, and her eyes flashed red for a moment. “He was determined to get you before, but now he’s really got a bang on for you. I’ve never—well, no one’s ever seen him so furious. His face is all marked up too. So what did you do?”
Her emotions warring between satisfaction and apprehension, Macey walked over to the window and looked out over Chicago. Somewhere he was out there…waiting for her. Would she be as lucky the next time they met? Would he be as lucky the next time?
She set her jaw grimly. No, he wouldn’t. Not if she had anything to say about it. She tightened her grip on the stake.
“Why are you really here, Flora? You said you wanted me to help you, but then you attacked a man that night and left him for dead in the alley. You fed on him—and who knows how many other innocent people.”
“A gal has to eat. Even a vampire gal!”
Macey turned to stare down her friend. “Sebastian Vioget is a vampire and he hasn’t ever—in more than a century—fed on a mortal. If you truly wanted my help, you can start by doing that—and by not killing people.” Macey kept her voice calm with effort.
Flora’s expression turned from petulant to hopeful. “Can you help me, then? Do you know how? Can you reverse this—this thing?” She waved a hand at herself.
“Definitely not unless you change your ways. And even then I don’t know.”
“Then what’s the point?” Flora stood suddenly, and her fangs shot out. Her eyes blazed red. “Why should I even try to change if there’s no reason to?”
“Why?” Macey felt a stab of pain deep inside. Flora didn’t understand, and whether it was the real Flora speaking—the friend she’d loved—or the undead one, she didn’t know. It didn’t matter. Hopelessness washed over her. “Because it’s the right thing to do. Not to kill people. Not to hurt them.”
“But you do it.” Flora sashayed across the room and began to flick through the dresses hanging in Macey’s closet. “You slay vampires, you beat them up, you burn their faces—yes, I can tell that’s what happened to Nicholas—and you get to dress like a rich woman to boot!” She spun, her eyes like fire-pit coals. Her fangs shone, lethal and longer than Macey had ever seen them. “You stake a vampire and you send him or her to hell. Every time, Macey. You are judging and sentencing them to damnation whenever you use that stake. So what makes you so much better, so much different than me? I at least chose to be this way. You—well, your abilities were given to you. Just like all these clothes, and all of this.”
Macey could hardly breathe. The back of her throat burned and the fingers clasping her stake suddenly felt large and clumsy. Black shadows threatened to obliterate her vision. “Get out of here.”
Flora looked as if she were about to argue, perhaps even to attack…but then she changed. Her eyes returned to their normal cornflower color, her fangs retracted, and the fury ceased rolling off her. “Aw, Macey…”
“Leave. And never come here again.” Macey thrust a hand out, pointing to the door. She had to work very hard to keep it from shaking, but she managed it for the most part.
Flora gave her one last inscrutable look. It was not angry nor regretful nor pleading. It was as if she were trying to read Macey’s mind. “Whatever you say.”
Flora clomped to the door and went through, slamming it behind her. Macey hurried over to watch through the peephole and make certain she left…and once Flora entered the elevator, Macey drew in a long, deep breath. She was shaking a little, from fury as well as regret. Then suddenly, she bolted to her feet and snatched up the telephone.
“Watch for a tall, slender, redheaded woman with lots of freckles. She’s coming off the north elevator in a few minutes. Don’t talk to her or say anything to her; I just want to make sure she leaves,” Macey said once she was put through to the security team in the main lobby. “And look to see where she goes. What direction.”
“She’s here, Miss Denton,” replied the guard, Joey. “Just comin’ off the elevator. I seen her come in earlier, too, all huddled under an umbrella, though it ain’t even raining out. I’ll see where the broad goes and call you back.”
Macey hung up the phone and sank onto the bed next to her mussed-up red frock. Flora’s accusations rang in her mind.
You are judging and sentencing them to damnation whenever you use that stake.
It was true.
But it was her calling. Her family legacy.
The telephone rang, its shrill brringg-brringg cutting through the stillness. Macey answered it and listened while Joey told her that Flora left the way she’d come: covered in a long coat and beneath an umbrella. Alone, and without any sort of transportation waiting nearby.
Something shimmered deep inside Macey as she set the telephone receiver back on its cradle. Her eyes were damp and she blinked hard, then scrubbed at them to keep the tears at bay.
Macey turned back to the bed and picked up the glitzy red dress. At any other time, she would have swooned over its beauty. The fabric and its beading fairly burned like light shining through one of Capone’s beloved Chiantis. But tonight, the frock represented an ugly compromise of her beliefs. A scarlet letter of her own making, so to speak.
She pulled on an opaque satin slip that covered her from breasts to mid-thigh and hugged her curves like a second skin. Then her garters and stockings—tonight, shimmery black ones that rolled up over her knees. And finally the frock itself, that sheer, lightweight bit of fabric that floated around her body like a breeze. The weight of beaded cuffs and the flame designs over the front of the bodice as well as along the handkerchief hem helped the flimsy tunic hang properly.
Macey was just finishing with last-minute accessories—a bejeweled headband, gloves, stakes, and her silver cross—when her escort knocked on the door.
She flung it open without checking the peephole, and there stood Chas.
SEVENTEEN
~ An Evening of Glitter and Glitz ~
“What the hell are you doing here?” Chas demanded as he pushed his way into the apartment. And just as Flora had done only a short while earlier, he stopped and stared, as his gaze swept the place.
“I live here,” Macey snapped. “What’s your excuse?” She grabbed her pocketbook. Just what I don’t need. What is he doing here? How did he even get in? “I’m going to be late. I don’t have time to—”
He grabbed her by the arm and swung her around roughly. “What is going on, Macey? What are you doing back here?”
“Leave your hands off me.”
“That’s not what you said last night.” He bared his teeth in a humorless grin, still holding her by the arm.
“Is that why you’re here?” she retorted, ignoring the heat that rushed to her cheeks. She didn’t try to pull away; she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “Can’t get on without me, Chas?”
“I can get on without you fine, lulu. It’s the rest of the world, God help them, who needs you. Not the bastard who’s giving you all this.” He swept an arm around in an angry motion. “You have a job to do—or have you forgotten, now that you’re living in the lap of luxury?”
“How many times do we have to have this conversation? And let go of me,” she said, considering using the big square heel on her black-and-red shoes to make her point…right on top of his toes. “How did you get in here, anyway? Capone’s got the place guarded like Fort Knox.”
Chas shrugged and released her none too gently. Macey resisted the urge to rub her arm, which smarted from his obnoxious grip.
“I didn’t have any weapons on me, and I was delivering a hat to you. They searched the hatbox—thorough blokes, they are. I left it in the hall, by the way. But from the looks of it, you don’t need any more hats.” His tone was filled with sarcasm and fury.
“Fine. Thanks. Well, gotta run. I’m leaving now.”
“I need you tonight—”
“What? Look, Chas, what happened last night was—”
“I don’t mean that, dammit,” he said. “I need you to do your job. Tonight. There’s something brewing out there—something’s going on—and I can’t keep up with all the undead in this town on my own.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to make a sharp comment about if he didn’t feel the need to sleep with every vampire he staked, he probably could—but she thought better of it. No need to hurt him too. So, instead of lashing out like part of her wanted to, Macey calmed herself a little and said, “I can’t tonight, Chas. I have to go to the Art Institute.”