This was all her fault. All of it—Linwood, Chas, and whatever else had happened.
Blind with unshed tears, shaky with uncertainty and exhaustion, Macey found clean towels and blankets and brought them, along with warm-water-soaked cloths to clean him up as well as she could. She cut away his clothes, dabbing at his injuries as carefully as possible without moving him. He was panting, still curled on his side in agony, rigid against the torture.
But when she tried to roll him onto his back again to get the front, he cried out. His eyes bolted open, blazing with pain.
“My…god…damned…arm,” he said furiously. “Stop!” Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he went limp.
Choking back tears—for she’d never seen such agony in his face—she took a better look at the arm he seemed to favor. Her empty stomach pitched, for the jagged edge of his humerus partially protruded from the skin of his bicep. Until she began washing away the blood, she hadn’t realized the extent of the injury.
“Oh my God,” she breathed. Venator or no, it was no wonder he wanted to die. How long had he been lying here like this? And how in the hell had he gotten himself here anyway? And why—why oh why—had he not gone to the hospital?
“I’m calling an ambulance. You need a doctor,” she said, even though he was unconscious and couldn’t hear her.
Except he could. A hand closed tightly over her thigh. It was clearly a negative response, and his grip hurt.
“Chas,” she said, pulling away, and felt worse when he forced his eyes open. They were bloodshot, his face was gray, and his lips were peeled back in a furious expression. “You’re going to die if I don’t get you help.” Her voice rose in a desperate plea. I need you.
“Don’t…fucking…care. Long…past…time.” Perhaps it was easier for him to be distracted, dragging out those words instead of focused on the pain. His hand moved and somehow curled around her arm. It was like an iron band, and he slowly, deliberately pulled her down onto the bed. “Stay. Here. Let…me…go.”
“Please, Chas.” I can’t lose you too. Macey struggled, trying to peel his fingers away, but somehow he was too strong—or she was too exhausted and heartsick—and the next thing she knew, she’d collapsed onto the bed next to him, sobbing silently.
What have I done?
Finally, Macey felt the heavy grip ease. His breathing was rough and unsteady, but he didn’t awaken as she slipped free and looked down at him. His arm lay useless next to him.
You’re a Venator. You’re strong. Fix it.
Fix it, or he won’t fight again.
He’ll probably die.
Oh God.
Macey touched his face. It burned her hand, and he didn’t move. He was completely out of it. But…did the wounds on his chest and throat look slightly better? A little less ugly and raw? Had the bleeding slowed? Perhaps.
All right. Next thing. Could she put the bone back into place? She was strong enough…
Trying not to think too hard about what had to be done, and whether she was doing the right thing, she swiftly cut away what was left of his sleeve to bare Chas’s muscular arm. Once his arm was uncovered and she could see where things had to go, she grasped his forearm with two hands that barely fit around it and drew in another deep, steadying breath.
And she gave a sharp, hard pull.
Chas shrieked, bucked awake and half upright…then, mercifully, collapsed back onto the bed. Silent but for his panting, and otherwise unmoving. He was obviously unconscious once more, or he would have been cursing her. Or worse.
Shaking, Macey looked down at what she’d done—the bone was no longer protruding, and things looked more “in place” despite the ugly black, purple, and raw red laceration. Then she bolted from the room to puke—but nothing came from her empty belly. After that, she found the telephone and called an ambulance. Then she went next door to St. Anselm’s to fill the Mason jars one more time.
Where was Temple?
Whether salted holy water would work on a compound fracture or its laceration, she had no idea, but at this point, Macey was out of ideas. All she knew was the bone was in place, and now they had to worry about infection.
She couldn’t lose Chas. Good God, what would she do without him? Alone in Chicago, facing vampires on her own?
Well, hell. Hadn’t he been doing just that while Macey was messing around with Al Capone?
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.
He’d been right. And now he and Macey—and all of them—were paying the price for her blindness.
She touched the rosary around her neck, offered up a quick prayer, then dumped two full jars of the salted holy water over Chas’s leg, and splashed a little more on the rest of his wounds for good measure. He jolted and moaned in his sleep. His breathing sharpened, but he didn’t awaken.
She didn’t know whether that was a good thing or not.
Macey heard a noise from the living room. The back of her neck felt normal, so she snatched up a stake along with the pistol Chas kept on his bureau and hurried out of the bedroom. It was too soon for the ambulance.
“Temple!” she cried with relief. “What took you so long? I was worried.”
The cool and collected woman still had every one of her short, sleek hairs in place, and her skirt and blouse were perfectly straight and pressed, but her expression was more taut than a bowstring. “It’s only been an hour, sister, and there was a traffic jam. And if anyone is asking anyone where they been, it should be me asking you.”
“I know,” Macey said, glancing at the clock for the first time. It had been only an hour—but she’d felt like it was half a day. A look outside told her why, for she’d not even noticed the heavy rain clouds that made it dark, seeming later in the day than it was. “Look, I’m done with Capone for good. I’m not going back.”
“Long overdue,” snapped Temple, brushing past Macey to stalk down the hall to the bedroom. “Is he going to live?” She paused to flip a thumb in the direction of Chas.
“I hope so.” Macey filled her in on Chas’s condition. “I don’t know how he even got back here, he’s so weak—and why he didn’t go to you or Sebastian instead. I don’t know where or when he was attacked, but I’d sure as hell like to find out.”
“What the hell you been doing anyway?” Temple muttered sourly. “Well, it’s probably that old theater, the Iroquois—now they’re calling it the Oriental Theatre. They’re done fixing it up, and isn’t the grand opening tonight? That’s why there was such a traffic jam.”
Even newcomers to Chicago like Temple knew the story of the original Iroquois Theatre—when hundreds of people had been trapped inside during a fire in 1903. No one had touched the property for more than twenty years because of the bad memories and reputation. But the new owners had been working diligently on it, and something about the reopening had been mentioned in the papers nearly every week.
“So what do you know about the theater?”
“There was an incident there last night—several cops were hurt. One died. The papers aren’t saying what it was, and the owners are trying to push it off as an accident. But I don’t think so.”
By now they were in Chas’s bedroom and Temple was digging in the small satchel she brought even as she looked at his unmoving figure. “He don’t look too good.”
“I’ve got to go,” Macey said after she answered a few more questions about Chas’s condition.
“Yes you do. And forget the damned ambulance. I’ll get Aunt Cookie here and we’ll do what we can. Good thing we got a church nearby. That water’s probably the only thing that could save him.” Temple stepped back and eyeballed Macey. “You’re going to want to clean up a little.”
She began to protest, but swallowed it. Right. She couldn’t go on a vampire-hunting rampage dressed in an evening frock. And maybe something to eat would be in order.
And then she’d be off to visit Sebastian and beg his forgiveness.
Then they could figure out what to do next.
Sebastian had awakened late that afternoon (which, with him being a nocturnal, was more like his morning) in a glorious mood. Truly, he hadn’t felt so upbeat and happy in decades…possibly centuries.
The fact that Temple, with her long, strong legs and full, sensual lips—along with several other delicious assets—had joined him in bed for the first time might have had something to do with it. He stretched lazily, smiling to himself. It had been a delightful interlude—and in a bed instead of some cramped mode of transport.
And he hadn’t dreamed about Macey—or Victoria or Giulia, for that matter. He’d slept well. He felt invigorated and revived.
He’d told no one about the loose ring, which had now become even looser. In fact, he was able to work it up and over his knuckle, which meant he could pull it off his finger. He didn’t know what it meant, but surely it had to be a good sign.
This morning—figuratively speaking, for it was nearly four in the afternoon—he sat up in bed with a smile on his face and went through the routine of twisting his ruby ring, and then each of the copper rings.