Roaring Dawn: Macey Book 3 (The Gardella Vampire Hunters 10) (20 page)

“Tell me,” came a voice, “where is Macey Gardella?”

“I…don’t…know…her,” Grady said, panting the words, his body vibrating with pain. “I…don’t.”

“Very well, then,” whispered the oily voice, very close to his ear. “Now I shall have to get serious.”

Fangs plunged into his skin, and Grady managed to smother a cry. His last coherent thought was a lament that the holy water he’d drunk hadn’t had time to permeate his blood.

Then he spiraled into a realm of fiery pain, and then…darkness.

THIRTEEN

~ Above the Fold ~

By noon on Monday,
there’d been no further messages from Iscariot, and no other hint of what he had planned.

“There must be a safer place to put the pyramid than here in the pub,” said Max, looking disgruntled as he set his crossbow and a quiver of bolts on a table. He also looked as if he hadn’t had more than an hour or two of sleep, even after being provided a bed at four o’clock in the morning.

“We have the Rings of Jubai, as well as the stake and rosary that belonged to Giulia Pesaro—in the sacristy at St. Patrick’s Church,” Macey told him. “We could put it with them.”

Max nodded. “That’s the place it all happened, then? With Sebastian? Yes, I think we should remove the pyramid to that safer location.”

Just then, Chas, who’d taken the last shift overnight, came into the pub. He looked only slightly less worn out than he had when Macey saw him last. She couldn’t help but wonder if she, too, looked as bad as her two male counterparts did.

“I’ve figured it out,” Chas said, but he didn’t sound pleased. “Your ‘tongue of the ruby-eyed skull,’” he added, looking at Temple.

“It’s not mine, but lay it on us, brother,” she replied. “What is it and how can we get it?”

“That’s the problem. I don’t know that we can. I hope there’s another solution.”

“Tell us what you’ve figured out,” Max said.

“I went to sleep last night thinking about a—a conversation Macey and I had. She’d mentioned photographs of Paris, and the catacombs under the city, and it reminded me of the time I was there. In the catacombs. I was helping Narcise escape from her brother Cezar Moldavi, and the way we got out from his underground hideaway was through a lesser-known tunnel through the catacombs.”

“That makes some sense—and so one of the skulls in the wall had ruby eyes?” asked Macey. “But surely it wouldn’t still be there—and what did it mean by its tongue?” Her spark of hope disintegrated.

Chas shook his head. “It’s not that simple. The skull wasn’t in the catacombs, anyway. Before Narcise and I managed to escape, I was an unwelcome guest of Cezar’s for several days. It was not at all pleasant, being the recipient of his so-called hospitality.”

His expression hardened and his eyes became haunted. Macey wasn’t certain whether it was due to the memories of being—what? tortured? fed on?—by Cezar, or merely the reminder of Narcise, whom he’d loved and apparently lost.

“I was in one of Cezar’s private chambers, and I found I needed to…well, to have something to focus on in order to, uh, block out the long, burning needles and skewers he was sliding into my body in exchange for information he required.” He tried for a smile, but it came out weak. Macey subdued a shudder.

“As I said, not a pleasant experience. If it weren’t for Narcise…” Chas stopped, shook his head, then seemed to collect himself. “But even during that hazy time, I remember: there was a skull, in his chamber. It had two ruby eyes—looked as if there were gemstones set in the sockets. They were easy to stare at and focus on, because one of them glinted in the candlelight. And there was a dagger blade protruding from between the skull’s teeth.”

“Like a tongue,” Macey said.

“Sounds right,” Max agreed. “But now we have to put our hands on it—I don’t suppose you have any idea where to find it now?”

Chas shook his head once more. “Not a chance. Moldavi’s long gone from that hideaway beneath Paris—it was in 1804 when all this happened, just after Napoleon was crowned emperor—and when I…left, Moldavi had been imprisoned by Narcise and Giordan Cale.”

“Moldavi was a vampire? They didn’t stake him?” asked Macey.

“He was a Dracule vampire—different from the ones spawned through Judas Iscariot, though there are many similarities—and no, Narcise chose not to kill him. She had her reasons. Even so, who knows what happened to the contents of his hideaway. Surely they’re long gone, and his underground lair since demolished.”

Macey drew in a deep breath. “I suppose we’ll have to keep looking for a different way to destroy the pyramid—if there even is another way.”

“The only one who might know where to find it is Wayren,” Chas said. “And since she doesn’t seem to show up when
I
need her, perhaps our vaunted
summas
could put in a request for some assistance?”

Macey glanced at Max to see his reaction to this churlishness, but he was merely looking toward the door with an odd smile.

“Ah, Wayren,” he said. “You’ve arrived just in time to put the grousing Woodmore here out of his misery.”

The rest of them turned to see the slender, pale-visaged woman moving across the room. She seemed to glide, but surely that was only because the movements of her feet were hidden by the medieval-style gown she wore, its hem brushing the floor. Her wheat-blond hair hung long and loose except for two narrow braids clasped in decorative metal tubes that hung alongside her beatific face. A delicate chain belt encircled her waist, and suspended from it was a ring of keys that seemed much too heavy for it. She carried a bulky satchel.

“Chas? You’re grousing and miserable? Is this something new?” she asked, though there was a subtle twinkle in her eyes.

They all laughed—even Chas—for somehow, despite the gravity of the situation, Wayren’s presence always lifted the mood closer to peacefulness and optimism.

“It’s good to see you, Wayren,” Macey said with emotion. She realized with a start that her eyes were stinging. For the first time in days, she felt as if everything she had to face might be manageable after all.

Wayren seemed to sense that she was deeply unsettled, for she took the seat next to her and closed slender fingers over Macey’s hand. Immediately, a flush of warmth and peace shuttled through her.

“It’s very good to see you too, Macey. All of you,” she added. “Even those whom I’ve seen very recently.”

Her smile seemed directed at Max, who folded his arms over his middle as if to ward off any further comments or questions. “Your timing is impeccable as usual, Wayren.” He went on to explain what Chas had learned about the ruby-eyed skull’s tongue, and the problem they faced in locating it.

“Not to mention the fact that we’re sitting here on our damn—on our arses, waiting for Iscariot to make his next move. It’s da—it’s bloody frustrating.”

“I see.” Wayren looked grave—as grave as Macey had ever seen her, and that made some of her optimism and hope cool. “Well, I may be able to assist in the manner of locating the dagger in question. That is, if you’re willing, Chas.”

“Willing?” he asked warily. Then his face changed into one of horror and chagrin. “You don’t mean you’d take me back there. Can you do that?”

Wayren merely looked at him, her expression inscrutable.

“Of course you can do that,” he muttered. “You can’t tell us who the dauntless one is, you can’t destroy Iscariot—or the entire race of vampires, for that matter—but you can bend the rules of time and ship people back and forth through the decades like they’re on a da—on a blasted ferry.” He sighed and settled his large hands flat on the counter, ready to push to his feet. “I suppose we’d better be off, then. At least I’ll be able to get a good Armagnac in 1803 Paris.”

“Legally, anyway,” Max agreed. He stood, holding up a hand for pause. “Right then, Woodmore. It’s not strictly necessary for you to go. There are other options—including putting the pyramid in the church here, and also taking it back to the Consilium. I’ll be happy to see to it myself when this is over.”

“That’s assuming it
is
over—and we all survive whatever ‘it’ is,” Chas replied. “Of course I’ll go. It’ll be safe in the Consilium, no doubt, but it’ll be even safer if it’s obliterated. I’m the only one who knows where the ‘curved tongue of the ruby-eyed skull’ is—or was—and it’s the least I can do, since I’m the one who— Well, it’s because of me we’re in this fix.”

“It’s because of Sebastian Vioget that we’re in this fix,” Macey said firmly. “He should have sent it to the Consilium.” Even as she said it, she wondered what precisely the Consilium was. It sounded…fascinating.

“As I said,” Wayren began, “if you’re willing, Chas, you are uniquely qualified to handle this task. How coincidental that you’re here, and you alone have the memory of the location of this particular object—precisely at the time it’s needed?” She looked at him, and before Macey’s eyes, all of his tension and disgruntlement seemed to wilt.

“How coincidental indeed,” he murmured. “I suppose one could call it that. Very well, then. Let us be off.” He glanced around the table, a wry smile twisting his lips. “I’ll bring back a bottle of the good stuff.”

“Better make that two—you owe me a replacement,” Temple told him.

Chas gave a short bark of laughter, but he did, for the first time in Macey’s memory, seem quietly at peace.

“Be safe,” she said, standing to give him a kiss.

He slipped his arm around her waist to pull her up for a good, thorough one—mostly just to bother Max, she figured—and then released her.

“I’ll be back”—he glanced at Wayren, who, as usual, was noncommittal—“as soon as possible.”

Macey had a strange feeling as she watched him follow the chatelaine from the room…as if she might never see him again. Or if she did, that it would be very different when he returned.

When she turned back, she found Max’s eyes fastened on her.

“Are you in love with Woodmore?” he asked abruptly.

“No. Not that it’s any of your business,” she replied coolly. “Just like it wasn’t any of your business to talk to Capone.”

“Good.” He set his jaw, shifted it a little, and seemed to be considering what to say next when the interior door slammed open to reveal Aunt Cookie.

She rushed in, her face filled with horror. “The
Trib
just put out a special edition, and you need to see it!”

Max was closest, and he swiped the paper from her hand. He didn’t even need to read it aloud, for the headline was so large it took up the entire top half of the front page and they all could see it:
Man Takes Students Hostage, Threatens to Kill if Demands Are Not Met.

“Dear God,” Macey breathed, standing. All warmth drained from her body. “That’s it. It has to be.”

Temple picked up the note from Flora and read it. “‘For every hour you delay, a very pretty price will be paid. One by one by one.’”

“Let’s go,” Max said, and slung his crossbow over his shoulder.

+ + +

Grady slowly became aware of his surroundings, yet had the presence of mind to refrain from opening his eyes immediately.

Carefully, he assessed the condition of his body: throbbing with pain, weak, sticky with blood and sweat, yet nevertheless fully intact. That was good.

The ground—a linoleum floor—was hard beneath him. That was very good; he was no longer suspended from the ceiling. And—a bonus—though his wrists were still bound and screaming with rope burns, they were in front of him.

Blood still oozed from wounds on several areas of his body—not so good. The side of his torso and hip that rested on the floor was in agony from the pressure against the injuries there, but he dared not move and draw attention to himself quite yet.

He vaguely remembered hearing Iscariot calling off his minions: “He must stay alive for now.” That, too, was fortunate, for they could easily have finished him off. Or worse.

After this initial assessment, Grady waited still longer to open his eyes, taking a moment to listen to everything going on around him, though he was also working on the ropes around his wrists.

There seemed to be indistinct conversation to his left—likely Iscariot and his comrades—and to the right, he thought he discerned soft sobbing and sniffling. His battered body tensed, and horror flooded him as he was reminded precisely what fate awaited the poor young girls if he didn’t find a way to get them out of here. They must be terrified.

There were no other sounds to give him a clue as to how much time had passed or any other information, but as he was about to open his eyes just enough to see through a slit, a clock struck from somewhere in the building. One chime.

One o’clock. Good, then. He’d been out for less than an hour.

When he finally opened his eyes, just enough to see, Grady was delighted to discover that he was huddled up, facing the wall on one side of the dining room. That meant he could easily release his ties without anyone noticing—unless someone was standing guard right next to him. The place was lit only by four electric sconces, two at each end of the rectangular space, which left him between the pools of light and somewhat shadowed. Excellent.

Still working the ropes that imprisoned his wrists, he covertly looked around, even slightly lifting his head—oh God, that hurt worse than the morning after too much whiskey—to ensure no one was nearby watching him.

When he moved his head, tilting it back slowly and carefully by sliding it along the floor and twisting ever so slightly to see “above” him, he saw Iscariot with three of his vampires at that end of the room. They were sitting around, talking. He wondered what they were waiting for, then saw the girl slumped on the floor next to them. The dark wound glistened at her throat.

Oh no
.

That realization galvanized him to work more efficiently—as if he needed the motivation—and moments later, with the help of his teeth working at the knots, he’d freed his wrists.

The rush of blood to his hands caused familiar, painful prickles, but Grady was used to them, and he was already subtly drawing his knees up close so he could work on his ankles. Constantly vigilant for a change in the conversation or a hint that someone had noticed his movements, he worked as quickly as possible, his movements partially hidden because he faced the wall.