Roaring Shadows: Macey Book 2 (The Gardella Vampire Hunters 8) (33 page)

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.

Al Capone was no longer a Venator.

Sebastian Vioget was gone.

And Max Denton had arrived.

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So you thought Max Denton was dead, did you?