Roaring Shadows: Macey Book 2 (The Gardella Vampire Hunters 8)(7)

He stared at her from the distance she put between them, his lips full and damp, his eyes dark with heat and wariness. His cheeks were ruddy with desire, his tie askew from her hands.

“That’s enough,” were the only words she could pull from the whirlwind of her mind, from the wants and needs and warnings fighting within her. Damned if her hands weren’t trembling a little as she held them up to stave him off. She lowered them, her breathing under control, her flushed cheeks cooling.

Grady eyed her as if she were some sort of feral animal. “All right, then, lass. No more kissing…for now,” he added, his voice hitching a little. “Why don’t we go and grab a cup of coffee, and you can tell me about where you’ve been, what you’ve been doing all these months.”

“No.” The word was flat and hard and angry. She had to make herself feel anger and determination. And nothing else. She could allow herself to feel nothing.

Grady’s attention had fallen on the mutilated photograph on her bureau, and he picked it up. “Who’s this?” He flattened the picture, then looked up at her.

“My parents.”

“Your parents.”

“On their honeymoon,” Macey felt compelled to add. “My mother was killed a few years later by the vampires. Brutally. It destroyed my father. I hadn’t seen him since then. He died in the War.”

“I’m sorry.” Grady looked as if he were about to say something else, but Macey didn’t want to talk about her parents, and she certainly didn’t want to talk to him any more. The longer she was with him, the more difficult it was to remember what she had to do.

She took the photo from him. “Look, it’s been nice chatting with you, but I’m leaving. I just came to—to get something,” she said, suddenly remembering that that was why she’d come. To find that rosary the old woman had given her. “And then I’m leaving. And I won’t be back. And I won’t be…seeing you anymore. All right? So there’s no reason for you to keep watching this place.”

“Why? Dammit, tell me why, Macey. At least tell me what changed—why you practically leapt from my bed, and then disappeared. Is it him? Are you with him now? Is that why? Or is it something else? You forget, I know your secret. So it can’t be that.”

“Yes, I’m with him. I’m working for Al Capone.” She knew as she said it what effect it would have on Grady, who loathed the gangsters, who hated how they skirted the law and acted like celebrities, and enjoyed the adulation poured upon them by the people of Chicago. Not to mention the violence and control they commanded. She knew it would effectively end the possibility of anything between them, ever.

And she must use it to drive a wedge between them.

“Capone?” Confusion knotted his expression. “You’re with Capone?” He grimaced. “I knew Woodmore was a gangster. He brought you there, didn’t he?”

“Chas?” Macey didn’t know why it took her so long to catch up—maybe it was the residual effect of that hot, sexy kiss—but when she did, she shook her head violently. “No, I’m not with Chas Woodmore. He’s not—he’s not part of that. He’s not a gangster, I told you that before. He’s a—”

“Vampire hunter. So you said. And you’re a vampire hunter as well. Don’t forget—I read the book about your family. The Venators. Which brings me to—what the hell are you doing with the likes of Al Capone?” His voice was filled with loathing, and yet there was a thread of pleading woven in there. Of course he didn’t want to believe Macey would ally herself with the gangsters. But it was imperative he did.

“I work for him. Personal bodyguard.” She forced herself to sound blithe, to keep her voice steady and cool. “The paycheck is better than anything I could get anywhere else—you can’t imagine the style he keeps me in. Being a Venator isn’t a paying job, you know.”

Grady blanched. His eyes never left her, and now they narrowed in anger and disgust. “I don’t believe you. Correction: I don’t want to believe you.”

Excellent. Almost there. She gave the wedge one last blow. “You’re such an idealist, Grady.” Her laugh sounded appropriately derisive. “I’ve moved up in the world—simple as that. And I’ve left behind this rathole of a place, secondhand and over-made clothes, and scrimping for my next pair of shoes.”

He stared at her for a long moment, and it was all she could do to keep her expression haughty and matter-of-fact. Her knees trembled, and her insides roiled, but he couldn’t know that.

“I’ve never been so disappointed in anyone in my life,” he said at last. His voice was so quiet, yet the words roared incredibly loud, filling her ears. And then they settled inside her like a heavy kettledrum.

His face grim, he turned to leave. “Be safe, lass. And if you ever need anything…you know where to find me.” He was out the door before she could say another word.

She managed to hold back the tears, to keep herself from collapsing into the chair, shaking, until she heard him leave through the front door below. Only then did she peer out the window from behind the curtains to watch him drive away.

No, he wasn’t driving away. She’d driven him away.

Now he’ll be safe.

Please keep him safe.







The special corset Capone had had made for Macey was horribly uncomfortable. Heavy, hard, and restrictive of movement. Supposedly, it was bulletproof.

She put it on then almost immediately took it off. “I’m not going to wear that,” she told herself in the mirror. If anything went wrong, how the hell was she going to do anything about it if she couldn’t move?

I’ll just have to take my chances.

She had to admit, however, the blue-silver dress was gorgeous. Capone was a natty dresser, and he clearly knew how to pick women’s clothes as well as his own.

The frock was made from a gossamer steel-blue fabric that hung long, loose, and lean from shoulder to just above the knee. There were no sleeves, and the neckline was a long, narrow vee that ended at the bottom of her breastbone. At the top of each shoulder, the fabric was gathered into elegant pleats and moored by palm-sized dark blue flowers. Each was trimmed with crystals and jet beads. Silver, blue, white, and clear beads glittered in a fleur-de-lis pattern over the entire dress, and with every movement it rippled and shone like moonlight over water.

Beneath the dress, Macey wore a silvery shift of watered silk with a low scoop neck that showed the tops of her breasts, which she’d confined by a lace-trimmed side-tying corset that allowed freedom of movement, and, more importantly, the ability to draw in a full breath as well as bend and twist. The evening jacket Capone had chosen for the ensemble was made from sheer midnight-blue material also embroidered with beading: black, cobalt, and midnight. Its sleeves were long and wide, resembling those of a kimono, and the jacket, which hung open like a robe, fell in points past her knees.

Macey pinned a cerulean-blue flower in her short, ink-black curls, tucking it just above and behind her left ear. She tucked a filigree silver cross on a chain beneath her clothing, preferring the element of surprise to a badge of identification. Sparkling blue crystal earrings and a wide sapphire cuff—with real gemstones—as well as long dove-gray gloves completed the accessories sent by her employer.

Her stockings were sheer, shot with silver threads, and ended above her knees, where they were held in place by black garters. A flash of them would be revealed every time her skirt rode up upon sitting or climbing into a vehicle. Into one of the black straps she slipped a special stake. It was the shape of a flattened oval, similar to a drafting pencil, and about the width of her two fingers. Its point was long and sharp. Into the other garter, she slid a knife in its sheath. There was also a small opening in the side of her frock that looked like a pocket, but was just a circular hole made from thread through which she could hang a stake. With the dress being loose, it wouldn’t ruin the way it hung.

And then there was her pocketbook—long and shallow. Perfect for a stake, her lip color, a few bucks, and a tiny derringer.

She had just slipped on dark blue shoes—lower heels than fashion generally dictated for obvious reasons, and decorated with sparkling pink flowers over each foot’s arch—when a knock came at the door.

Seven o’clock. Right on time.

Macey had met Gus before—he was the one who’d driven her to Cicero, and the other few times she’d been transported somewhere at Capone’s whim. Neither of them felt the need to speak as he gestured for her to precede him into the elevator, but she was fully aware of his appreciative look sweeping her from head to toe. She filed that away for potential future interest and swept into the elevator.

“You look stunning,” said Capone when Macey walked across the Lexington’s lobby to meet him. He took her arm, leaning close enough to mutter for her ears only, “And little do all da boys know, you’re deadly in more than looks, ain’t ya, doll?”

“Da boys” were stationed around the lobby and in the alley Capone used for entrance and exit, because it could be closed off on either end for protection. Each of the dark-suited men were armed, a fact which was obvious by the bulges beneath their suits, the way they stood, and, in some cases, the firearms poking boldly from between shirt and waistband.