Roaring Shadows: Macey Book 2 (The Gardella Vampire Hunters 8)(6)

The door was locked, but she had her key and it still fit. She ducked inside and closed the door behind her, then stilled. It was silent as a graveyard, just as the neighbor had promised.

The frayed carpet smothered her footsteps on the treads as she climbed the two flights to her flat. The house smelled of must and dust, and beneath it all lingered the scent of blood, the essence of death.

Or maybe it was just her imagination.

The door to her flat was locked as well, and when she turned the key and the deadbolt clunked open, Macey became aware of her suddenly clammy palms and racing pulse. Irritated with herself—she was a Venator, for pity’s sake!—she shoved open the door.

Her apartment looked just as she’d left it. The curtains at half-mast, the brightly colored rag rug flipped up at the corner. Her bureau was cluttered with bottles, feathered and flowered hair bands, and a small jewelry box—now thick with dust. A few blouses and a dress were still slung over a chair. Her closet door sagged half open, revealing a tumble of shoes on the floor. The tiny kitchenette was dusty, with a spoon and a single cup still sitting in the sink, now bone dry months later.

And there was the bed in the center of the small room, the headboard tucked against the wall and a small table next to it.

Mercifully, not only had Mrs. Gutchinson’s body been removed, but so had all of the bedding on which she’d bled her life away, along with the horrible ropes that had bound her frail wrists and ankles to the bed posts. Macey swallowed hard, forcing herself to look at the mattress—which had been covered by a clean blanket—and remember.

This is what my life is. This is what happens to people I care for.

This is why.

A flash of anger shot through her, fury tinting her gaze red. It wasn’t bad enough that she had to fear the brutality and violence of the undead against her and those she knew…but now also one of her own. Another Venator, another who carried the same legacy in his blood, was just as much a threat to her as the half-demons she hunted.

How could this be right? How could this be fair?

How could she survive this?

Thoughts in turmoil, Macey stepped further into the room, her attention settling on the dresser and the single photo that sat on top. Half the picture was torn away, but the part that remained was the image of her mother Felicia. A disembodied arm was slung around her shoulders, and she looked right at the camera, laughing at something. She had been beautiful—and Macey had some fuzzy memories of the woman filled with life and energy, blond-haired and blue-eyed…so very different from her bookish, dark-haired, dark-eyed daughter.

Macey’s hands were steady as she picked up the frame and pried off the back, pulling away the cardboard mount to reveal the other half of the photo. She sank onto the dress-strewn chair, examining the photo with new eyes as her discarded clothing slipped down from the back of the seat.

The man known as Max Denton had been dark and devilishly handsome. In this photo, with the woman he loved, the mother of his only child, he grinned rakishly, showing white teeth and a deep-cut dimple in his clean-shaven face. With his tailored suit and informal pose, he looked more like a well-heeled swell than an infamous vampire hunter. But apparently, her father had been legendary in his vocation.

Especially after the vampires had brutally killed his wife Felicia.

Macey glanced toward the bed, her stomach cramping unpleasantly. It had been horrifying enough for her to find her nosy but harmless landlady torn to pieces…and even more terrifying to see what the vampires had done to her friend Chelle.

How much worse it must have been for Max Denton to discover his wife tortured in such a manner.

The loss had destroyed him. Driven him mad with grief and fury.

And he’d sent his eight-year-old daughter Macey away to live with a string of relatives in England, New York, and finally to a tiny town outside Chicago.

She’d never heard from him again. He’d never even bothered to write. To ask after her. To let her know he still loved her. To acknowledge her existence.

She stared down at the photo for a long time, sifting through her memories and emotions…basking in the memories of her anger, loneliness, and confusion.

He’d abandoned her. Discarded her. Ignored her.

And until now, Macey hadn’t understood. She wiped her eyes and dug for a handkerchief in her bureau drawer.

She would never risk someone like that. No matter how lonely she was, no matter how much it hurt her…or them. She wouldn’t be like her father.

A sound caught her attention and she turned toward the apartment door, listening. The scuttle of a mouse? Some other critter who’d taken up residence in the abandoned house?

There it was again…the faintest scuffle.

Macey rose, looking around for a weapon. Not a stake; it was broad, sunny daylight, so she didn’t expect a vampire. She wasn’t afraid of anything or anyone else, except a bullet, and even then—

The door to her apartment swung open silently and there he stood.

Grady.





FOUR

~ In Which Mr. Capone Receives a Set-Down ~



“What are you doing here?”

Grady didn’t respond other than to stare at her—almost as if he were seeing a ghost.

Macey couldn’t look away either. Seeing his name in print was a poor substitute for looking upon the man himself. At first glance, he hadn’t changed—not a surprise. It had only been five months since they'd parted in front of the Tribune building. He still wore his thick, velvet-brown hair cut in a fashionable style—short around the ears and neck, longer on top so it dipped and waved over his temples and occasionally fell into his brows. He was dressed in a white shirt, tie, and brown coat with dark trousers and spats. His fingers, curling into themselves and the brim of his fedora, were ink-stained.

But as he stood in the doorway, it was his eyes that caught and held her attention. Those blue eyes, today stormy and dark like Lake Michigan on a winter’s morning, were filled with relief and confusion. And something else—anger? Disappointment?

“Macey,” he said at last. “I’m so damned glad to see you. I’m so glad you’re all right.”

Still clutching her handkerchief, Macey stuffed the two parts of her parents’ picture into her pocketbook. “What are you doing here?” she asked again. Her heart thudded hard and she fought to keep her expression empty.

“You haven’t been home for months.” His voice was tinged with anger. “And you ask me what I’m doing here?”

Then she understood. “You’ve been watching my—this apartment?”

He nodded, stepping into the room. The door swung closed behind him. “I figured you had to come home some time. Mr. Talbot—the bloke next door—he was happy to keep an eye out for you if you came back. He called me. Fortunately, I was in the office and could come right away.”

“Why?” It took all she had to keep her voice even and disinterested.

“Why?” He stepped closer, his eyes glittering as he tossed his hat onto the bed. “How can you be asking me that? After what you went through, after what happened here, and to you, after what we—Jesus, Macey, we were—we slept together. We made love. You—we—” He shook his head as if to clear it. “After all of it, you climb into a gangster’s limousine and disappear for five months and you’re asking me why I am here? Why I’ve been desperate to see you?”

She didn’t move quickly enough, and he was there, his hands gripping her shoulders, his face so close to hers she could see the beginning of stubble on his chin. “Do you really not know? Do you really think I wouldn’t care?” The flavor of Ireland thickened his voice as his fingers—warm, strong—burned into her skin through the thin cotton of her blouse.

Macey struggled to keep her breathing steady and her expression unmoved. Her pulse pounded in her throat, and she hoped he couldn’t see it. Grady was close…so close. He smelled like pine, fresh, and like damp worsted wool, and ink, and something else…something evocative and familiar. Something that made her insides slide deliciously.

“Macey,” he said, his voice gentling as he probed her with his gaze and stepped closer. Now she could feel the crease of his trousers brushing against the hem of her skirt, his shoe nudging hers. “Say something, lass.”

“I…” Her voice dried up, and before she could try again, he bent his head.

Grady’s lips were full and warm, fitting tenderly over hers in a soft caress.

Oh.

Her eyes sank closed and her hands landed on his broad, strong chest. Warmth and the thud of his heartbeat seeped into her palms. He angled his mouth, tasting her more deeply as she opened to him, her body leaning into his long, muscular one. Slick and smooth, their tongues and lips tangled together as all thoughts, all hesitations evaporated from her mind. Pleasure surged through her—gentle, hot licks filling her from chest to belly and lower. Oh, oh, yes.

She forgot where she was, what she was, and sank into this man…this familiar man, with his knowledgeable touch and sensual mouth and stormy, demanding eyes. She felt hot and sleek and alive, and…

Yes. She felt. She could still feel. She wasn’t dead, wasn’t as empty as she’d feared. She wasn’t her father, cold and unfeeling.

The thought of Max Denton was like a bucket of ice water dumped over her head, and Macey stilled, then pulled away. Grady released her and she stepped back, refusing to allow herself to pant even though she was out of breath from the rush of pleasure.