Roaring Shadows: Macey Book 2 (The Gardella Vampire Hunters 8)(49)

“It was her soul,” Wayren said. “Manifested into a new person, simply waiting for the day when she could rest again.”

“And now they’re both at rest.” Macey smiled, though she still felt a horrible stab of grief when she realized Sebastian was really gone.

“Are you pouring any of that for me?” Wayren gestured to Temple. “Since you’ll be taking over as proprietor, you should get used to doing thus.”

“So now I’m to be pub-owner as well? Venator trainer, apprentice milliner, and now speakeasy proprietor? I’m going to be awfully busy.” But Temple seemed to like the idea, for she spread her hands over the smooth, battered wooden counter as if caressing it. “I could do that. For him.” She blinked rapidly, then turned to pouring for Wayren and—finally—Chas as well.

The four of them lifted their glasses at once.

Macey’s eyes filled and she blinked hard. Two farewells in two days were far too much.

But that was her life. This was the choice she made. The legacy she must fulfill. And now, she would move forward: stronger, resolved, and unencumbered by guilt and attachment.

“To Sebastian Vioget,” said Chas, lifting his drink high. His dark Gypsy eyes were damp as he stared unseeingly at the glass. “The strongest man I’ve ever known.”





EPILOGUE

~ Indigestion and an Unpleasant Incident ~



As was his habit, Al Capone had eaten far too much for dinner. Despite the sour taste left by Macey Gardella’s defection, he’d been in a celebratory mood because—hell, he’d lived through the thievery at the Art Institute, and the damned counterfeiters who took him for a million large ones were in jail.

Thus, he’d washed down multiple helpings of osso bucco, pasta, and garlic bread with carafes of Chianti. And then there’d been the cannoli…and the coffee with lots of cream. And sugar. Not to mention the cigars.

But a man hadda enjoy life—especially when he was rich as Croesus and had more than a few bullets with his name on them—and plenty of good food was paramount to living life to the fullest. After all, wasn’t that in the Church’s teachings? Man’s purpose on earth, as taught by the Catechism, was to live life to the fullest.

Al Capone couldn’t be accused of shirking his Catholic duty in that, at least. And whatever else he did that might be sinful…well, it got washed away in the confessional every week.

Nevertheless, his overly full belly made it difficult to sleep. Mae was in Cicero tonight with her sisters, so at least he had the room at the Lexington Hotel penthouse to himself. He could fart and belch and moan from heartburn and indigestion without restraint.

Al was more comfortable without his trousers or shirt on, so he stripped down to his boxers and undershirt, leaving everything in a heap on the floor by his shoes and socks. His vis bulla was clearly outlined by the too-tight undershirt straining over his distended belly, and he looked down at the small cross-shaped bump rising over his navel with a wry smile.

Without the confidence and power given to him by the tiny amulet, he didn’t know whether he’d ever have become the man he was today: feared, respected, and filthy rich. Powerful. He suspected the tiny cross also kept his infection by syphilis at bay, for he hadn’t had an outbreak in years.

And, dammit, in exchange for such an abundant life, Al did his part for charity—more than anyone knew, in fact, but him and God. He even did his part to keep the peace in this lawless world of Prohibition. No matter what people said about his greed and illegal ways, his control over the black market liquor distribution in Chicago helped keep violent crime to a minimum, and restricted mostly to between him and his rivals. And, sure, he’d slain a few vampires over the years—hand to hand, the old-fashioned way. But that wasn’t something he felt it necessary to do anymore.

His thick brows drew together as he thought about Macey Gardella Denton. The little bitch might have won the battle, but he sure as hell wasn’t finished with the war. They were in this together, him and Macey. They had a prophecy to fulfill, and he’d find a way to make her realize she couldn’t finish her duty here—or, more importantly, the prophecy—without him as her partner.

His stomach rumbled alarmingly and Capone’s fingers slid away from his engorged torso as he closed his eyes. He knew from experience the best remedy for overindulgence was time and rest. And a nearby toilet.

He must have slept, for the pain and discomfort receded for a time…then suddenly he became aware. His eyes opened. He was facing the window, where a single beam of moonlight made its way from between gapping drapery that fluttered in the night’s breeze.

A wave of icy fear rushed over him, for the window had not been open when he retired, and Capone reached stealthily for the pistol and stake he kept in the bedside drawer.

“I wouldn’t do that.”

The quiet command was accompanied by something sharp and metal poking his bare, meaty shoulder.

Al looked over and behind him to see the shadowy figure standing next to the bed. He was holding a long, slender metal object with a point that was clearly lethal in nature. Some type of arrow.

“You,” he breathed, his insides shifting and sloshing with a combination of fear and relief. Not a vampire. Not one of his rivals. But…an unpleasant, unexpected visitor nonetheless. Someone he truly thought he’d never set eyes on again.

The metal tip of the arrow that was poking him prodded Al to roll over onto his back as the nighttime visitor loomed over him.

“I’m not very pleased with you, Alphonsus.” The man’s powerful shoulders were outlined by the stray beam of moonlight as he stood with the metal tip now pressed into Al’s belly. One little shift, and there would be a lot of blood. He’d be split open like a fatted calf.

“How did you get in here? Through the window? Impossible.”

A flash of white teeth accompanied his visitor’s low chuckle. “Through the door, like anyone else. I found it necessary to open the window on arriving, however, in order to air out the room a little.”

Through the door? How the hell…? It was all Al could do not to bolt upright in shock and alarm, but he managed to restrain himself. The arrow most likely wouldn’t kill him, but it would be messy and painful.

“You might want to consider replacing your security team,” continued his visitor. “They didn’t pose much of a deterrent—at least to me.” Another low chuckle.

“What do you want?”

That seemed to be the signal for all levity and cordiality to evaporate. The very air in the room changed to something dark and dangerous. “I want to know why you didn’t deliver my letters.”

He shifted the hand holding the arrow. The tip was sharp enough to split the straining cotton of Al’s undershirt…and then it settled on his bare skin. Just above his navel, where the silver vis bulla now gleamed, unfettered, in the low light.

“I was waiting for the right time,” Al replied. He was aware of the mad racing of his heart and a mortal fear he rarely ever experienced.

“I entrusted you with them. And you’ve betrayed me as well as our legacy.”

The arrow tip danced gently over his skin and settled at the vis bulla. Al tensed, but when he would have moved, another flash of metal caught his attention. A second arrow, long and lethal, settled at his throat. He swallowed, and felt the dangerous tip scrape against his Adam’s apple.

“You aren’t fit to wear the vis.”

Al felt a tug at his belly and, though he dared not lift his head to look, he realized the first arrow tip had skewered the small ring of his amulet. “You have no—”

“I have every bloody damned right.” And with a sharp jerk, the arrow moved and the vis bulla was torn from Al Capone’s skin. When the arrow lifted, his small silver cross dangled from its tip.

“You—” The protest was strangled in his throat as the second arrow remained in place, pinning him to the bed. Dark, furious eyes held him pinioned with just as much force as the weapon, and Al dared not move.

The loss of the vis bulla hadn’t been painful so much as draining. Al felt the deficit of power as if it seeped into the bedclothes beneath him, and though no other man on earth would know how he’d been handicapped, he knew.

And so did his visitor.

“Stay away from my daughter.” The soft, icy command had no need for an accompanying threat.

There was a soft clink, and the arrow with the vis bulla moved sharply. The tiny amulet glittered briefly in the light before it was snatched from the air by his visitor and tucked away. “Goodbye, Alphonsus. In the interest of your well-being and my tight schedule, I hope this is the last time I will ever visit you.”

And then he was gone—out the open window in a blur of dark clothing and the soft clink of crossbow bolts.

Al lay there for a long moment, his belly quivering with relief that he was still alive and no one had been there to witness his set-down. The small amount of blood gathering at his navel was incidental, but all at once, his bowels were dangerously, unpleasantly loose. He barely made it to the toilet in time, and as he sat there, cold sweat running down his face and body, Al had his own private Come to Jesus moment.

Things were going to be a lot different in Chicago going forward.