Roaring Shadows: Macey Book 2 (The Gardella Vampire Hunters 8)(41)

And if she was going alone, she was going well armed and fully prepared.

Temple nodded, her expression grave. “I’ll come with you. I may not be a Venator, but you know I’ve got some good moves.”

Macey hesitated, then shook her head. “Much as I would love to have you watching my back, I don’t think it’s a good idea. If Sebastian comes back, or if I don’t—well, someone has to be here to—to…” She shrugged. “Someone has to take care of things.”

Temple looked as if she were about to argue, but her words were forestalled when Aunt Cookie appeared. “That man’s gotta see a doctor. His fever’s gone bad. I’m calling an ambulance.”

Fear seized Macey by the throat. “Do it. Don’t waste any more time.” She turned to her friend. “Take care of him, Temple.”

“You shouldn’t go alone.”

Macey looked at her, and for the first time, the reality of her situation became clear. She was completely alone. “There’s no one else.”







Despite the horrible fate of the Iroquois twenty-some years ago, the luxe decor of the Oriental Theatre seemed to have wiped away any of the lingering negativity of its predecessor. Throngs of people filled the sidewalk in front of it, and the street was backed up in both directions as attendees climbed out of private automobiles and taxis to line up for admission.

Jaunty, carnival-like music rolled out from inside the open doors like an aural red carpet. Every few minutes, streamers and confetti exploded from a cannon-like device, showering laughing and talking patrons as they made their way inside. As soon as they stepped over the threshold, each attendee was given a small paper cone of honey-toasted almonds.

Unlike the previous night’s gala at the Art Institute, this was not a formal occasion. There were many fewer jewels and a severe lack of tuxedos and tailcoats. Macey didn’t mind that, for she’d chosen to dress much more casually herself tonight—in loose sailor pants and a simple cotton blouse, along with sturdy, low-heeled shoes.

But as soon as she stepped through the brass-and-glass revolving door, she recognized another, more disturbing difference.

The back of her neck and all along the tops of her shoulders went frigid. The sudden, nauseating chill was accompanied by a wave of malevolence that staggered her. It was almost as if she’d walked into—no, through—a wall of evil incarnate.

Feeling dizzy from the intensity, Macey stopped in the midst of the incoming flow of people and slipped off to the side to get her bearings. Her hands had gone cold. Whatever percolated inside this building was terrifying and strong.

Upon its unleashing, a root of malevolence shall marshal such power as never before known. The second part of Rosamunde’s prophecy flashed through her mind. If anything felt like a “root of malevolence,” it was the sensation in this place.

…And only the dauntless one and his peer shall rise up to it.

The dauntless one and his peer…

But Macey wasn’t the dauntless one. And she was alone.

Someone bumped into her—an oblivious young man, speaking and gesturing enthusiastically to a group of friends as they brushed by—jarring her back to the moment. She stepped back even further from the crowd, now pressing her back flush against the wall.

What am I going to do?

She watched the hordes of people streaming into the building, her anxiety growing. Whatever was here, whatever Nicholas Iscariot had planned, wherever he was…every single person who crossed this threshold was in mortal danger.

I have to get them out.

The answer flashed into her mind with bell-like clarity.

“Fire!” she cried. “Fire!”

The reaction was instantaneous. Whether it was because of the history of this location and the terrible fire that had killed hundreds, or simply the normal response to such a warning, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that people were leaving.

Shouts, screams, panic…

A stampede could be dangerous…but was it more dangerous than being trapped by the malevolent undead?

No.

She hoped.

The crowd had already reversed itself, spinning and pouring back out onto the street. More people took up the cries of “Fire!” and Macey helped, hurrying deeper into the theater like a fish swimming upstream. People pushed past her, the vast majority of them taller and broader than she, bumping her with shoulders and arms, stepping on her toes, making her stumble from side to side. All through this maelstrom of activity, Macey was utterly, terribly aware of the ugly chill leaching into the back of her neck.

Whatever the malignancy was, it remained.

She pushed through the lobby, navigating along the walls so as not to be swept out with the mob while doing her best to make sure everyone got out safely. To her relief, the exodus was surprisingly orderly—helped in part by the ticket-takers at the doors, and the fact that many extra exits had been added to the new structure. A few people pushed harder than necessary, but no one seemed to be panicked, and the patrons filed out quickly from all sides of the building.

By now, the crowd was coming out of the viewing auditorium, and even though there were some comments like “I don’t smell any smoke!” and “Where’s the fire?” no one was taking a chance on remaining inside.

The last thing anyone wanted was for a repeat of history.

Macey began to breathe a little easier as the crowd thinned, and then she heard sirens in the distance. Someone had taken the warning seriously; the firemen were on their way.

What would happen when they saw there was no blaze?

Would everyone come back in?

She was standing at the top of one of the side aisles, which sloped gently down toward the stage above which the moving picture screen was mounted. The sense of evil fairly pressed down upon her in this smaller, quieter space. Macey reached for her stake, extracting it from a deep pocket. She found comfort in the solid, round pike as she held it alongside her trouser-clad thigh.

By now more half the auditorium was empty. The patrons who remained seemed uninterested in the warning cries of “fire!” and were meandering about in a surprisingly relaxed manner, chatting and laughing as if they hadn’t a care in the world.

Why weren’t they leaving? They didn’t even seem to notice the activity going on around them, even when she shouted, “Fire!” to a cluster of people standing in the aisle.

When she noticed their clothing, Macey froze. Her hand strayed onto the edge of a velvet-upholstered seat and gripped hard. They were dressed in the fashions of twenty years ago…not today.

She looked around, and it was true: all of them. Everyone who was here, everyone who remained…they were all dressed in the attire of 1903, when the Iroquois had burned down in this very location.

A dull thud drew her attention toward the door up the aisle behind her. It was closed. It had been open just a moment earlier—but now her ears were filled with the cacophony of the rest of the doors thudding closed around the top of the auditorium.

She wasn’t going to be able to open them. The hair on her arms stood on end and she turned slowly to look around the theater. Its occupants—people? spirits? vampires?—there were too many mixed sensations assaulting her to be certain—continued to interact as if Macey wasn’t there, as if they hadn’t died in a fire twenty years ago, as if they were unaware of the eerie, creeping malevolence that seemed to filter through the air.

As she turned slowly, watching, waiting, expectant, Macey noticed one of the stragglers from across the theater. She was reminded of Flora, for the woman had bright penny-colored hair and long, gangly limbs—

It was Flora.

But she was dressed normally, in today’s fashion. And she had her hand tucked through the elbow of a dark-haired companion in a suit. They were making their way up the aisle toward an exit on the opposite side of the auditorium. He looked at Flora, smiling and exuding charm, and that was when Macey saw his profile.

Her heart stuttered…and then stopped dead. No.

God, no, not Grady.

Not Grady with Flora.

A warning shriek clogged in her throat as Macey lunged, vaulting over a row of seats toward them.

Flora turned and smiled over her shoulder at Macey—as if she’d known she was there all along. Then, with a grin, she tightened her grip on Grady’s arm and leaned in to speak to him.

Macey scrambled over another seat—and then all at once, a swarm of people surrounded her. Everyone was in her way, blocking her movements, her view, her desperate attempt to catch up to Flora and Grady, who were now nearly at the exit.

“Grady!” she cried…and wasn’t really sure whether the syllables came out or whether she was merely screaming inside her head. Nooo…

She pushed and shoved, realizing dully that these people, these beings, were insubstantial. Not quite real, not quite phantoms…certainly not undead.

But they were cold and sharp and raw as she pushed at them, sort of through them, using stake, arm, and hip. Macey felt as if she were battling upstream in an icy river filled with great swaths of fabric—silk, cotton, wool—and they clung to her, wrapping around her as she fought through them, stabbing ineffectively, marching through people-shaped entities, of ice and cold and evil and dankness…

Suddenly she slammed into someone strong and solid. Hard. Cold. She struck out with her stake as powerful hands grabbed her, pulling at her. The stake hit something, someone; she felt the give and the subsequent pop.