But over the last five months, since Big Al brought her to the bloody dinner in Cicero, Macey had become all too familiar with the man’s Chicago headquarters. Every time she passed through the hotel lobby, she encountered the gangster’s lieutenants—who of course had no idea she was anything other than a simpering moll who enjoyed the clothes and food Capone provided. There were armed guards at every elevator entrance as well, and though each of them knew her by name and sight, not one of them realized she was stronger, faster, and surely more intelligent than any of them—.45-caliber revolvers notwithstanding.
The closer one got to the heartbeat of Capone’s enterprise inside the Lexington, the more bodyguards there were. And once she crossed the threshold into the infamous Suite 430, she had to take care to avoid the numerous padlocked canvas bags stacked around the room—each one holding untold amounts of cash—waiting to be taken to the bank. No wonder he didn’t want anything to do with counterfeiters—he had enough cash he didn’t need to print his own.
It boggled her mind how much money the gangster known as Snorky made. And that he really did donate a significant amount to the poor—including serving a huge Easter feast for anyone in need.
Regardless, the last few months had done nothing to change her opinion of the gangster, Robin Hood gestures notwithstanding.
“Baby doll,” Al greeted her. “Are you ready for tonight?”
He sat, heavy and solid, behind a desk strewn with papers, a half-empty plate of pasta, and a glass of wine. His dark hair was slicked back, and his clean-shaven face nestled on a short, thick neck into the collar of his tailored shirt and suit coat. The ever-present eleven-carat diamond winked from his middle finger. One of the other gals who hung around Capone had told Macey it was worth fifty thousand dollars.
“Unfortunately, yes,” she replied, wandering past a table with an open copy of the Tribune.
She paused, carelessly scanning the newspaper headlines. Fateful Iroquois Theatre to Reopen as The Oriental read one of the stories. Third Body Disappears from City Morgue was another; Two Dead Near Meat-Packing Plant, and Explosion Near Hyde Park Leaves Two Injured proclaimed the state of crime in the city. And the Louis Armstrong at The Music Castle Tonight—Courtesy Big Al story had a large photo of Capone and the famous jazz player shaking hands.
And then she saw it—what she was looking for, but despised herself for doing so—beneath the two-column, two-inch story Houdini Will Return to Chicago.
J. Grady.
Macey exhaled and turned away. He was still in Chicago, still writing, likely still investigating. Still alive.
Irritated with herself for caring, Macey spun and moved to the French doors that led to a low-walled patio overlooking Chicago. She’d hardly been outside the Lexington, except with Capone, for months.
“It’ll be a treat to see you all gussied up tonight, doll,” Capone commented, his pencil making a scratching sound as he scrawled something over a stack of papers. “Your first time out in da public eye and all.”
She held back a scathing comment with effort. Like she gave a shake about going out in the public eye. She swallowed, her throat dry and her insides empty despite the excellent minestrone and lasagna she’d recently eaten. This is not what I thought I’d be doing when I said yes to Wayren and Sebastian.
I didn’t expect to be alone.
And confused.
“And make certain you look perfect tonight,” Al added firmly, setting down his pencil. “Snorky is never seen without the most beautiful and attentive women on his arm. It would ruin my reputation to be out with a sour-faced broad.”
Macey turned from the French doors. “Why do you require my attendance tonight? Surely you don’t fear any vampires making their way into the heavily guarded Music Castle when there are so many other venues with victims ripe for the plucking. And Iscariot would never be so bold as to show his face.” Nicholas Iscariot was, understandably, the only vampire Capone truly feared.
Macey herself had had a taste of the malevolence of the son of the very first vampire—Judas Iscariot—in the back of a limousine only a few months ago. Too often she still had nightmares reliving Nicholas Iscariot’s knife slicing open her dress, leaving her torso bare to the vampire’s needle-sharp fangs and lascivious mouth while two other undead held her immobile. There was still the faintest scar ringing her left areola, and one right down along her sternum.
Until today, her duties to Capone over the last few months had only required her to attend private meetings that happened or would last after sunset in unsecured locations. And, occasionally, she’d attended him in this very suite of rooms. There’d been once she’d staked a vampire waiting in an alley outside one of his meetings. And there’d been a time when she’d sensed one sneaking through the back stairwell of the Lexington and introduced him to the point of her stake. But those and the few other incidents in which her skills had been needed had been mild and—well, boring.
Fortunately, thus far he’d not expected her to provide other, more intimate services. He seemed devoted to his wife Mae, and from what Macey heard from the other gals who hung around, none of them had been required to warm his bed either.
Thank God for small favors. It was bad enough that people assumed she took off her clothes for the man. Especially since it was rumored he had the clap.
Why had Capone been so intent on keeping her cloistered away until tonight? It was simply a jazz concert—and it wasn’t even the first time rising star Louis Armstrong was coming to Chicago, though Capone had brought him here—so she didn’t see how her presence would matter.
Unless Big Al was waiting for something big to happen.
But for now, you just wait till I need you, he’d said that night in Cicero. You wait until I say.
It wasn’t just because he wanted her to protect him. He wanted Macey here because he believed a prophecy written by Rosamunde Gardella back in the 12th century referred to the two of them.
From the deepest bowels of madness and grief shall the dauntless one root, who shall go forth to lay bare from the earth this condemned evil. The dauntless one shall make the half of the whole, and the whole shall be formidable as the ocean and unyielding as the mountain.
You, doll, are the dauntless one, he’d told her. And I am the other half of the whole.
Was it true? Why did he even think he was the one referred to in the prophecy? Was it merely due to his inflated self-importance? Since I’m a Venator and a powerful man, the prophecy must refer to me.
Macey wished she could talk to Wayren, or even Sebastian, about it. She needed to find a way to communicate with him and Chas and Temple; but so far, she hadn’t been willing to test Capone’s threats against her friends.
Every time she thought it was time to change that, to take control of her situation and try to walk away from the Lexington Hotel and to give Capone the boot, she remembered seeing Chelle on the table in the morgue: torn and bloody, hardly recognizable. Destroyed. It was because of her connection to Macey that had happened. And it was because of who Macey was that her very best and oldest friend Flora was now an undead.
Simply knowing Macey had destroyed two of her friends so far. How could she risk others?
As a not very subtle reminder, Capone kept the photographs he’d taken of Macey and her friends on the grand piano in his living room. Framed. Taunting.
If she misstepped, if she angered Big Al, she had no doubt he would take out his anger on someone she cared about. Sebastian and Chas she wasn’t as worried about; they were well able to take care of themselves—although Chas was just as susceptible to bullets as she was—but it was Temple, Dr. Morgan, and Dottie…
And Grady.
“Seven o’clock, Macey. Be ready. Gus will come for you. And wear the silver-blue dress I had Marshall Field’s send for you. With the sapphire and black evening coat. I’ll send some jewelry. You bring stakes.” His eyes swept her, considering. “And don’t forget the special corset I had made for you. Wear it, just in case.”
“Whatever you say, Scarface,” she said, deliberately using the nickname he hated.
Then she left the room.
One of the benefits of being on Al Capone’s personal bodyguard payroll was the furnished apartment room in the Lexington.
A year ago, Macey would have been struck dumb by the luxury and splendor in her small, private suite, but now she despised every moment she spent inside it. Part of the reason was because of what the space represented.
But the other reason was every time she looked out the window she saw the red and white Tribune sign. At night it was even worse, for it lit the night sky like an accusatory beacon.
Even when she drew the curtains, the insidious glow shone through.
Now, she ducked through the door just long enough to retrieve her pocketbook. It was only two o’clock—five hours before Al required her to be “gussied up.” Macey was damned if she was going to sit around eating bonbons and gossiping with the other gals today.
She was going out, tailed or not.
As always, she’d trained this morning in a room Capone had set aside for her to do so (and presumably him as well, though she never saw evidence he used it), but somehow even that exhausting workout hadn’t drained her of the frenetic energy, dissatisfaction, and unease that seemed to prickle through her like a warning.