Roaring Shadows: Macey Book 2 (The Gardella Vampire Hunters 8)(34)

Grady knew he was safe saying that, for the Colonel would never let his niece stand in the way of a good story—no matter how prettily she begged.

She did look very pretty, out here with the moonlight gilding her blond hair into something even lighter and more ethereal. And she was gazing up at him with parted lips and soft, admiring eyes, still holding on to his arm.

So he kissed her. He was a hero, after all. And she clearly wanted to be kissed.

And he wanted to kiss her. Not so much because she was lovely Carol McCormick gilded in the moonlight, but because of who she wasn’t.

And when she pushed up close and slipped him a bit of tongue, he was not only surprised but also receptive, kissing her a little more thoroughly, moving his arms a little more tightly around her.

A shadow moved in his peripheral vision accompanied by a small beam of light. Someone was coming from around the corner, carrying an electric torch. Probably the night watchman. Loath to put Miss McCormick in a compromising position—especially in case her aunt or uncle happened to come upon them, or worse, to hear about it—Grady released her and stepped back, his hand sliding along a bare arm to clasp her fingers.

The figure with the handheld beacon had become fully visible now, and with a lurch of his belly, he recognized it. Her. Macey.

She was walking straight toward them, calmly and in a businesslike fashion, directing the torch around on the ground and along the walkway that circumnavigated the building. Of course she had to have seen them kissing, and Grady wasn’t certain what sort of reaction she—or Carol, for that matter—might have in this situation. Proper ladies didn’t generally kiss in public, and there was the whole awkwardness of the fact that he’d been kissing Carol instead of who he really wanted to kiss.

Ah, dammit to hell.

But Macey didn’t seem put off at all. “I was looking for clues as to where the thieves went,” she said as she approached. “Thought I might be able to tell which direction they went; I couldn’t have come out more than a few minutes after them.”

“Good thinking,” he somehow managed to reply. Everyone else seemed to have been more interested in congratulating him or enjoying the fact that they were still alive rather than attempting to chase down the perps. “Er…did you find anything helpful? And I would probably call them would-be murderers instead of merely thieves.”

She gave him a wry smile. “Quite true. And possibly.” She gave Carol a nod. “Have a nice rest of your evening. The moon is lovely.” And then she moved off into the darkness, clearly continuing on a circuit around the museum.

Grady didn’t realize he was staring after her until Carol spoke. “Should she be going off by herself like that? In the dark, with would-be murderers around? And why is she looking for clues? Isn’t that something the police should do? Who is that woman anyway?”

As if to answer her question, the sound of approaching sirens cut through the distance. And just then, Carol’s ride—the Colonel’s private auto—pulled up to the drive below, giving Grady a neat exit from that conversation.

“I’m off to the Trib,” he said, escorting her down the long flight of narrow steps.

“Will I see you soon, Jameson?” she asked, looking up at him with an arch smile.

“I’m sure you will,” he replied, wincing a little at her use of his full name, which always felt so clunky to him, and managed a crooked smile.

“You were such a hero tonight,” she said—for about the dozenth time. “I’m so proud to know you.”

He tucked her into the auto, pressed a quick kiss to her forehead, and escaped. An all-nighter would be a welcome distraction.

And he damned well better get a big byline and a headline above the fold.







Grady was just finishing his final draft of the story when a shadow fell across his desk.

“It’s coming, it’s coming,” he said without looking up. The Colonel had been breathing down his neck for over an hour, determined to get the story to the typesetters in time for the first edition.

“Grady, it’s your uncle.”

He stopped, his body dropping several degrees colder, and looked up. McCormick stood there, a grave look on his face. “Officer Montrose just called. They’ve been looking for you everywhere. You need to go to the hospital immediately.”

Suddenly feeling as if he’d been submerged in deep, dark, cold water, Grady rose slowly. “What happened?” he managed to say as he looked around dully for his hat and coat, then realized he was still wearing his tuxedo jacket and didn’t have anything else.

“Some sort of attack; they didn’t give any details except that you needed to come right away. I’ve already called for my car. You shouldn’t be driving in this state and you won’t want to take time to park.”

“Thank you.” Grady ignored the roaring in his ears long enough to add, “It’s finished.” He gestured to the article, still in the typewriter, then ran from the room.

He didn’t wait for the elevator, but instead bolted down the stairs, terror swelling in his chest.

Not you too, Linwood. Don’t die.





TWENTY-ONE

~ A Pile of Consequences ~



Despite a close, careful circuit around the Art Institute, Macey didn’t find anything that would help track down the direction in which the thieves went. She spent more than an hour poking around in the dark, with only her flashlight and some iffy streetlights to help look for clues. Maybe there’d be something to see in the daylight.

And all the while, she couldn’t help but think of how brave and clever and skillful Grady had been. Without him, they surely would have been blown to bits. Her heart squeezed and she wished desperately to be able to thank him herself—for saving her, and the rest of them.

It was nearly one o’clock when she gave up her search for clues, and that was when Macey realized belatedly she wasn’t certain where to go now that she had left Capone’s employ. It also occurred to her that she did have a few things she wanted to retrieve from her rooms at the Lexington, but she didn’t know whether she’d even be allowed entrance.

Still, as she walked down deserted, moonlit Lake Shore Drive, still dressed in her glitzy red frock and chunky-heeled shoes, she decided to make the attempt. Maybe she’d beat Capone back to the hotel, or maybe he wouldn’t try to stop her. Perhaps she’d put the fear of God into him, as her foster mother Melissa used to say.

Focusing on that small problem was so much better than remembering Grady and Miss Carol McCormick necking in the moonlight.

Unexpected and dismaying as the sight had been, it was a good thing, she told herself. A good thing he’d moved on to greener pastures—or, at least, a lot less dangerous pastures. (Macey didn’t necessarily think Carol McCormick’s so-called pasture was greener…although it certainly was richer.)

Because even though she’d drawn the line with Big Al, that didn’t mean it would be any less risky for Grady to socialize with Macey. Just as they’d done to her father, the vampires would do the same to her: destroy anyone or anything she cared for.

And now that she had Nicholas Iscariot looking for vengeance… She shuddered. Flora’s warning, and the information that Iscariot hadn’t escaped Macey unscathed, only made her more of a target for the master of the undead. She would have to be terribly careful, extremely brave, and very strong.

And then, all at once, Macey suddenly felt lighter of heart. She had Chas and Sebastian. And now that she’d left Capone, she’d be working with them more, planning and strategizing with them, training with Temple, even visiting with Aunt Cookie in her millinery. She was back where she needed to be.

And she could forget about Grady, move on and see what developed with Chas…

Macey smiled a little in the waning moonlight, though deep inside that heavy little stone of sadness and guilt still sat there. It would eventually dissolve, she knew, and at least she wouldn’t make the same mistake as her father. She wouldn’t be responsible for the death of someone she loved.

She’d been walking for a few blocks when she realized her feet hadn’t taken her to the Lexington, but instead toward Old St. Patrick’s Church, where she’d encountered the elderly woman. The elegant steeple, which was so old it hardly stood half as high as the newer buildings that surrounded it, cast a cross-topped shadow over the pavement.

As she looked at it, considering whether to walk closer and perhaps even go in, Macey remembered what the old woman had said to her.

Do you still have the rosary? The one I gave you? Keep the rosary near. You will be in need of it.

She stopped suddenly on the pavement. Those words, that warning, settled sharply in her mind and sent urgent prickles along her arms. She didn’t know where it was, but she knew where she’d last had it. At her old apartment above Mrs. Gutchinson’s.

Forget the Lexington. Her old flat—that was where she’d go for the rest of the night—it was probably only another two hours until dawn. Many of her things were still there, and the place was deserted. No one would bother her or look for her there.

She could search for the rosary. After her experience with Nicholas Iscariot, burning his face with the large cross, Macey realized she needed all the help she could get.