Roaring Dawn: Macey Book 3 (The Gardella Vampire Hunters 10) (12 page)

“Traitor,” Macey said. “I knew I shouldn’t have let you have any.”

“Children, children,” Temple mocked them. She paused, standing with her hands on her hips. Her hair was almost dry, and she’d hung up her wet coat. “Do I have to draw circles on the blackboard and make you stand with your noses in them?”

Chas blinked. “What?”

“Never mind,” Macey said. “You were starting to say: when you removed the bottle…?”

“Right. As soon as I removed the bottle, Flora reacted. It was as if she’d been stung…or maybe… Hell, maybe she
sensed
it. I can feel the evil when I touch it. Maybe that’s why it was locked in a lead safe—we’ve had undead in here before; there’s always that risk—and Vioget couldn’t take the chance that one of them might come in and recognize the pyramid’s presence—or, at least, the presence of something malevolent. So he put it in a safe to mask it.”

“Why even have it in the pub at all?” Macey grumbled. “Why not put the damned thing in the church sacristy like we did with the rings—or somewhere else just as safe?”

Chas shook his head, a small smile playing about his lips. “That’s Vioget for you. He probably found it wildly amusing to know the very thing Iscariot and all the other damned vampires are desperate for was right here, under their noses. And ours as well,” he added darkly.

“Yes. And ours as well. And he never told anyone. We might never have
known
about it,” Macey added, suddenly horrified at the thought. “What if we’d never found out?”

“More importantly, what if Flora had managed to escape with it?”

Their eyes met, the three of them, and Macey shuddered.

“But now she knows, which means Iscariot will soon know,” Temple said, dropping another piece of glass onto the pile with a sharp clink, as if to punctuate the proverbial falling of the executioner’s blade.

“Right. My question is, what’s he going to use it for? What does it do? Why is it valuable to an undead?” Macey was still holding the innocent-looking object.

“That’s going to require some time in the research library, or an answer from Wayren. And since no one’s heard from her for a while…” Temple said, looking pointedly at them both. “Well, if I didn’t have a disaster to take care of here, and a pub to run, I could—”

“Go off with you, then,” Chas said with a sharp gesture. “That’s more important than opening up the bloody pub—and it’s well before noon anyway. No one expects you to open till five. Plus it’s Sunday anyway—they don’t expect you to open at all. But I sure as hell am not going to hunch over tiny, faded text in languages I don’t know.” He glanced at Macey. “You like books. You could help.”

Obviously, he had a burr in his trunks, but she wasn’t certain why. Because Flora had gotten away? Because she’d left him bleeding and mangled? “Thank you for the suggestion, Chas,” she replied sweetly. “But I think I’ll help out in here.”

“You’ll both just get in my way,” Temple said, sounding like a parent again. “I’ve got all my notes organized, and I know just where to look. As long as the information is there, I’ll find it.”

After Temple left, Macey turned her attention on Chas. “You need to get doctored up.”

“You offering, lulu?” His dark eyes fastened on her mockingly.

“Sure. I’ll be happy to pour salted holy water over your open wounds,” she replied evenly. “Pitchers of it. With great relish.”

He just cast her a black look, then turned to continue setting the tables and chairs upright—using a little more force than necessary.

“Chas, don’t be an ass. Those bites and scratches need to be seen to.” She could make out fresh blood pumping gently from a deep gash over his shoulder, a result of his current exertions.

When he kept whipping the chairs back onto their feet, she stepped away from picking up chunks of glass. As she approached, he stiffened.

“Leave me alone.”

“What the hell happened when Flora was here?”

He shot her another look; this time, one that was probably supposed to portray confusion over her question, but fell short of doing so. “We fought over the pyramid—as you can plainly see.”

Macey put her hand on him. She was strong enough that he couldn’t easily shake her off. “Chas.” She gave his arm a little yank to get him to look at her.

He spun, eyes glittering. “Leave off, Macey. Unless you want to
really
tend to things.” His tone left no doubt as to the meaning of his suggestion.

She didn’t back away, for below the lasciviousness there was hurt and anguish in his expression. Clearly whatever was on his mind wasn’t the simple matter of a vampire escaping him.

“Chas,” she said, forcing him to face her. The fact that he allowed her to do so indicated a lack of true resistance. “Talk to me.”

Misery flooded his eyes, then was gone as if he’d snapped his fingers. “No. I’m not interested in talking, lulu.” His gaze went flint-hard. “But I’d sure as hell be interested in another kind of activity.”

Comprehension dawned at last. Now she understood—his anger, his pain, and the self-loathing that he was doing his best to turn onto her. Flora had either tried to seduce him, or vice versa.

“Come on, lulu,” he coaxed, his voice edgy and rough. “You enjoyed it the other night, even in the middle of all that trash in the alley.” His smile, though devastating in its beauty, held tension at the corners as he moved closer. “And so did I.”

Macey felt the edge of a table behind her, and she flattened a hand against the center of his chest. His heart raced beneath her palm, and the heat of his skin burned through the damp, bloody shirt. She wasn’t frightened, or even angry. Far from it. The pain lurking in his eyes and beneath his taunts was palpable and desperate, and she knew that was what fueled his actions.

“Chas—” she began.

“You know how it was…all rough and wild,” he said, his voice dropping low. “That’s the way we do it, isn’t it, lulu? You and me. We’re alike in that way, and we—”

He was abrupt and strong, his hands pulling her close, his mouth descending on hers as he arched her back over the top of the table. Macey caught herself up with an elbow, and pulled her face away from his skilled, sensual mouth even as he plucked at the buttons of her shirt.

“Let go of me, Chas,” she said, becoming a little annoyed at his insistence—as well as her own reaction to his convincing kiss. “This isn’t the ti—”

A door slammed open—the exterior door. The glasses on the shelves rattled.

Chas didn’t move other than to cast an annoyed glance over his shoulder, but Macey froze when she saw the man striding toward them.

She couldn’t believe her eyes, couldn’t even catch her breath, couldn’t
speak,
before he was there, grabbing Chas by the back of his collar.

“Who the hell are you?” Chas demanded, finally swinging around to face the newcomer as Macey stared, hardly able to comprehend.

“Max Denton,” replied the man. “Now take your damned hands off my daughter.”

NINE

~ A Miscalculation of Great Proportion ~

When Max imagined how his
reunion with Macey might go, he assumed there would be tears. Tears of joy, perhaps; tears of anger too, and likely a few harsh words as well. He wasn’t delusional, and Savina had given him plenty to think about.

But he didn’t expect Macey to take one look at him then stalk from the room without a word, slamming the door behind her. Though Savina, devil it, had warned him something like that would probably happen. Why were women always bloody right?

The sound of Macey’s wordless but emphatic exit echoed in the otherwise silent room.

“Right, then,” he said with a forced chuckle, then turned his attention to the chap who’d been mauling his daughter. He scraped up his anger again—which wasn’t difficult to do. He was much more experienced in dealing with that emotion than whatever the other was. “And who the hell are you?”

“Chas Woodmore.” Besides having been all over Max’s daughter, the man also looked as if he’d just come out of a brawl with a vampire. Classy. He eyed Max warily, but didn’t back down.

“So you’re Woodmore. I’d shake your hand, but I’m not feeling terribly friendly toward you at the moment.” Max didn’t even attempt to put any warmth in his smile. He glanced at the door through which Macey had made her dramatic exit, wondering when she was going to return.

If
she was going to return.

“I can understand that.” Woodmore’s demeanor was a balance between abashed and arrogant—which was probably exactly how Max would have reacted in a similar situation.

They each sized the other up for a moment, then Woodmore broke the silence. “Want something to drink?” The other man moved behind the counter and thunked two glasses onto it next to a pile of broken vessels.

“If you mean something hard, then by God,
yes
. What the hell are they thinking, outlawing alcohol in this godforsaken nation?”

“My sentiments exactly,” Woodmore said as he slid over a glass filled with a generous amount of whiskey.

Max lifted it, sniffed, and smiled. It appeared to be a suitable vintage. “Praise God.” He toasted the heavens then sipped.

Chas raised his glass. “Damned pleased to meet you, Max Denton—though different circumstances would have been preferable.”

Max clinked his glass against the other man’s and nodded in acknowledgment. Yes, he certainly hadn’t anticipated that the first time he saw his daughter in thirteen years she’d be
under
a man in the middle of a destroyed bar. He gestured to the mess. “Vioget always ran a tighter ship than this.”

“Temple Devereux runs an even tighter one—as long as there aren’t unexpected visits by an undead.” Woodmore’s mouth flattened grimly.

As they sipped their drinks, he explained what had happened with a vampiress named Flora, and Max’s mood soured. By the time Woodmore showed him the onyx pyramid, he was disgusted.

“Damn it to hell. This belongs in Rome, in the Consilium—not here in bloody uncivilized Chicago where it could so easily fall into the wrong hands.” Even as he examined the shiny stone, he felt the faint reverberation of malevolence emanating from it. The object was damned powerful. “I thought it was bad enough that Iscariot has Rasputin’s amulet—but if he gets this as well…” He muttered a vulgar curse that made Woodmore’s brows lift in appreciation.

“What does it do?” asked the other man as he refilled their glasses. “Temple is researching it, but I assume you know, despite the fact that you’ve been underground for some time.”

There it was at last, layered beneath the words. Hints of judgment and disdain from Woodmore—ironic, really, for the bastard himself knew a thing or two about running away from his problems.

“As the
Summas
Gardella, you can be damned certain I know plenty—and more than I’d prefer, to be bloody honest.” Max shook his head, thrusting away the nagging twinge of guilt.

He’d avoided the leadership responsibilities of his position as head of the Venators ever since Felicia’s death, using Macey’s safety and his own blind drive for vengeance as an excuse. A paltry one, as far as Savina and Wayren were concerned. They had made their opinions clear to him—the latter in a subtle way, the former much more vociferously. “Though I must say, Bellitano has done a brilliant job in my stead.”

“Brilliant doesn’t begin to cover it.”

“Right, then.” Max paused, holding his gaze just long enough for Woodmore to know he acknowledged and accepted the man’s opinion, but that as
summas
—and father of the woman Woodmore had just been mauling (a thought Max kept shoving as far back in his mind as possible)—he wouldn’t stand for any disrespect. “Rekk’s Pyramid is a nightmare in the making in the hands of a vampire. When its power is harnessed, the pyramid allows its—shall we say ‘master’ to continue his or her thrall even when the enthralled is not present.”

“Do you mean to say, it allows the vampire to control people when they are not with him? When they are away?”

“Precisely.”

“People? As in…plural? Multiple ones at a time?”

“Correct.”

“Like an army?”

“Exactly.”

“Good God.”

“Quite.”

Woodmore looked down at the stone, appearing stunned. “How does it work?”

“That depth of detail I don’t know. Most likely Wayren will, or at least she’ll know where to find out. Somewhere in that library she totes around masquerading as a satchel.” Max finished the last swallow of whiskey, then glanced over at the door again. “I suppose I should go after her.”

Woodmore gave him a sardonic smile. “Best of luck to you.”

“Right.” He gritted his teeth and stood. “Where do you think I might find her?”

Woodmore shrugged. “Possibly in her bedroom. Through that door and down the hall. Last door on the left.”

Max tried not to think about the fact that Woodmore knew the location of Macey’s bedroom, but that didn’t stop him from giving the man a cold look.

“If she isn’t there, she’s probably gone out—out into the city to find something to stake.” Woodmore took Rekk’s Pyramid off the counter. “In the meantime, I believe I’ll put this back in the safe.”

+ + +

My father is here.

The words repeated over and over in Macey’s mind like the fragment of a song she couldn’t quite remember.

My father is
alive.

What the
hell
was he doing here? Now? After thirteen years? Here?

After thirteen years of
silence
.

She reached blindly for something—a shoe—and whipped it across the room. It hit the wall of her bedchamber with a sharp thunk, leaving a deep dent from its chunky heel.

The travails of being superhumanly strong.

Like many a daughter upset with her father, she’d fled to her bedroom—though
flee
wasn’t perhaps the best word. Flee implied fear and cowardice. And escape.

What she was feeling was
not
fear and cowardice.

Escape? Perhaps. But…

How
dare
he just…show up like that? Without a
word
—after
years
?Especially when she and Chas were…