He looked down at her, eyes stunned, as her hands—curled into his shirt just below his shoulders—pinned him in place. She wasn’t even breathing hard; she’d barely used any effort—and she met his gaze to prove it to him. Holding him there, with the strength of several men.
“Holy Christ,” he murmured.
And then he kissed her.
Macey was so shocked when he grabbed her shoulders and tipped his head down to hers, she lost her grip on him. Grady’s feet slid to the floor, and, still pulling her to him, he covered her mouth with hard, demanding lips.
She lost her mind at that moment—everything fell away but the taste of him, the familiar scent of his skin, the feel of his body, pulling her against his. He gathered her close with strong arms—not the superhuman arms of a Venator, not with extraordinary strength—but with a power of his own that went beyond mere physicality.
She found his damp hair, felt the warmth of his skin as she slid her hands around the back of his neck to pull him close, to taste him. Their tongues tangled, slipped and slid, thrusting and sweeping as pleasure and heat roared up through her, and down past her belly. Her knees buckled a little, her eyes closed, and when he slid his mouth away to press soft kisses on her cheek, he whispered something in Irish against her skin.
Macey shivered with pleasure as his miraculous mouth moved along the side of her neck to the sensitive part of her throat, while a hand cupped the back of her head, gently stroking the soft skin there. But it was when she felt him shift the chain of the rosary out of the way, pulling it from beneath her dress, that she remembered.
She froze.
“No. No.” She pulled away—an easy task, due not only to her strength, but from catching him off guard.
Her mind was reeling, her thoughts exploding, her body hot and damp and trembling—and terrified. “I can’t—we can’t—look, Grady, you have to understand, I live in a world you can’t be part of.” The words tumbled from her lips faster than she could think them or even make sense of them. “You might be a good pickpocket, and a brilliant lock-picker, but that’s not the same as hunting and fighting and staking the undead.”
Stubbornness sketched across his face. He was breathing hard too, and his eyes—which had been heavy-lidded with desire—now narrowed with frustration and anger. “You can’t keep me away, Macey. From you—or from the damned vampires. This,” he said, gesturing to her, to them, to the hot, passionate kiss they’d just shared, the heat throbbing between them, “is proof you can’t deny.”
She grappled for a way to make him understand, because the fear…the fear was simply too much for her to bear. It was bad enough that he was a target because of her, but now he wanted to hunt them down? Fight them on his own? Go out and search for them?
And he wanted to be with her too. He had some sort of crazy notion they could be fighting together. Like a team? Not on her life.
She had to make him understand. He wasn’t going to be a Felicia. She wasn’t going to be her father.
“I can’t,” she said harshly. “Do this. Be here. And—and—I’m with Chas now. You were right—he’s more than just a friend.” She kept her expression blank and cold because, by God, she had to make him understand. She had to repel him. “I got what I came for, thank you.” She flipped up the end of the rosary, then tucked it back inside her neckline. “I promise you, I’ll take care of the ones who did that to your uncle. But you stay the hell out of it, Grady. You stay the hell away from me and them.”
“Or what?” he said. His eyes blazed and he was in her face again, close enough to grab her. “You’ll sic your boyfriend on me?”
Oh, bitter. Oh, yes, the bitterness, the hurt was there.
Good. She was sorry for it, but it was necessary. She managed to keep the tears from coming, managed to keep her voice steady as a rock. “Just let us handle this, Grady. We know what we’re doing. You stick with picking locks and capturing—you know, mortal criminals—and writing newspaper stories.”
He jolted as if she’d struck him, but she wasn’t stopping, wasn’t allowing any moment for remorse. But when she got to the door—this time, he didn’t try to stop her—she paused and looked back at him. “About Linwood…use salted holy water on his wounds. That should help.”
And then, no longer able to keep up her facade, she ducked out the door and fled down the street.
Macey didn’t know where to go, so she went to Chas’s.
After all, she was “with Chas” now. Might as well make it true.
That sort of gritty anger and a dull reality fueled her now. She ignored the option of going to the front door—if Chas was there, he was probably sleeping, as it was late morning.
Instead, she went around to the back alley side of the building and jumped high enough to pull down the rickety metal fire escape that led to his window. It clanged and creaked as she wrestled it into place, glad to have something physical to do to expend her pent-up emotions.
She was exhausted, having not slept, and with every bit of the roller coaster of emotions she’d been on—like the amusement park ride she’d read about on Coney Island in New York—Macey felt as if she were about to explode.
When the fire escape ladder was in place, she clambered up quickly, pulled it up after her, and peered through the window into the living room. No sign of life; no surprise. The window was stuck, but she was strong enough to yank the damn thing up—apparently he normally used the door—and she climbed in. As she turned to close the window, she noticed that a small silver cross had been nailed above it. And then, feeling the stuffy heat of the apartment, she decided not to close it after all.
And that was when she smelled blood.
Lots of blood.
TWENTY-THREE
~ A Severe Miscalculation ~
Macey’s heart surged into her throat. And then she saw the trail…smears along the floor and the short hall to the back of the apartment.
“Chas?” she called, dashing through the empty living room to the single, small bedroom in the back. “Chas?”
The smell of blood was stronger back here, and suddenly terrified by what she’d find, Macey paused for a brief prayer before she pushed the door open.
He was there, huddled, curled up on the bed. Blood stained the sheets and what part of his clothes she could see. He was breathing—hard, heavily; she could see his torso lurching as she rushed over to him.
“Oh, God, Chas!” Macey turned him carefully onto his back, tensing when he groaned with pain, and sucked in a horrified breath. Oh my God. “Chas!”
He was…a mess. Fresh blood, dried blood, jagged wounds, neat slices. But he moaned, and his eyes fluttered.
“Fuck…you…” he managed to say. His gaze was glazed and feverish, but there was no mistaking the fury in his expression and in the two syllables he managed to breathe.
I should have gone with him last night. Oh God, what have I done?
She had no time to waste. And who cared if he was angry with her—he had a right to be—she had to help him. And quickly.
Macey stumbled away and out into the kitchenette. She tore through the cupboards and found two large Mason jars, still smelling slightly of whiskey. Collecting them under her arm, she pulled out a canister of salt—thank God he kept it on hand in quantity—and dropped it on the table.
Bolting out the door, she slammed it shut behind her and dashed across the courtyard to St. Anselm’s, all the while thankful that Chas had chosen a home right next to a church.
Noon mass was going on as she slipped inside—at least, she guessed that was what it was; people were in the pews and singing as the priest walked down the aisle—but Macey ignored the few people who turned back to look at her.
Instead, she found a large basin of holy water in the vestibule of the church and filled the Mason jars, then ran back to Chas’s apartment. Less than a minute later, she was back in his room with the jars of salted holy water.
“I’m sorry, Chas,” she said as she began to pour it generously over him, soaking his skin, clothes, and sheets.
He screamed, arching and twisting with agony as the water sizzled and steamed whenever it hit an open wound. He cursed her and cried, huddling into a ball in spite of himself—which required Macey to readjust him onto his back, tears of anguish spilling from her eyes as she forced him to continue the terrible pain. It was the only way—the only hope. He was so far gone, so injured and depleted of blood, that only a miracle could save him.
Chas shuddered, shook, even sobbed and cursed when she came back with the Mason jars refilled and dumped them on him a second time. He cried, “Just let me goddamned die”—but she ignored him and kept pouring, kept sobbing, kept her teeth gritted as she did one of the hardest things she’d ever had to do.
Finally, after dousing him the second time, she tottered into the living room and located his telephone. She called The Silver Chalice.
No sooner had she identified herself than Temple—who’d answered the phone—lit into her. “Where the hell are you? Where have you been?”
Macey finally got her to listen, and the woman calmed down enough to comprehend the seriousness of Chas’s situation. “You’re at his house? I’m coming there right away.” Though that was the only thing Temple said, Macey could hear the underlying fury and blame in her words.