Roaring Midnight
Chapter EIGHT

~ Of Trying and Thinking and Doing ~
"And so you are ready to take on the vis bulla," said Sebastian in his velvety voice. He smiled at her, his amber eyes warm and intimate.
Macey found it difficult to swallow. She was both nervous and a little intimidated by him-this unaccountably handsome man who looked like a golden angel.
A golden angel with an air of deviltry.
"I will try..." she began, but the words stuck in her throat.
"Try? One cannot try to be a Venator."
Macey spun at the sound of the condemning are you talking about?. lap voice. Chas walked through the door, dark and slick and gloomy. He was dripping wet, for it had begun to pour rain just as Macey and Temple arrived at The Silver Chalice.
"If you are called as a born Venator, you must either give your life for the legacy, or you deny your Calling. If you do, your mind is erased of all knowledge. You live in ignorant oblivion."
Macey stared at Chas. "You said that before...but do you mean that literally?"
"Of course. I told you yesterday."
She turned to Sebastian, whose sensual, angelic appearance had turned black and furious. Chas sauntered past the table that had been set up in the center of the room and took a seat in a plump brown armchair, heedless of his soaked clothing. He crossed his legs and gave Sebastian an amiable smile.
"It is true?" she said to Sebastian, knowing this was her last chance to change her mind.
"It is." The words sounded as if they were wrung from his throat.
Silence hung, taut, in the room for a moment. Macey tried to steady her breathing, grab hold of her thoughts. Temple had taken her through Cookie's Smart Millinery and down into a hidden cellar, which led to a tunnel connected to Sebastian's quarters. Once she delivered Macey, Temple had taken herself off somewhere, leaving Macey with Sebastian-and now Chas.
She looked around, taking a moment to examine the space as a way to clear her mind. This was a chamber she'd not seen on her previous visit to the Chalice. Attached to Sebastian's private quarters, the rectangular area was more of a library or office than a living room.
There were two doors at opposite ends of the room-one through which they'd entered, passing through the parlor in which she'd originally met Sebastian. Filled bookshelves lined one wall. Two armchairs-where Chas currently left small puddles on the rug-were arranged in front of a desk, sporting stacks of books and papers, a lamp, and writing implements. A glass-doored cabinet on the shortest, far wall held a variety of curious objects-odd statues, unusual jewelry including a tarnished metal cuff. Even a large, shiny black splinter made of some material she couldn't identify. The items looked like artifacts, as if they belonged in a museum. A large book that appeared to be a Bible sat on a shelf in the center of the cabinet. Arranged on a bookstand, the tome was open to a page Macey would swear had been hand-lettered by a twelfth-century monk.
Her fingers itched to examine the book, and she could hardly keep her eyes away. She didn't work at a library for nothing.
The tension in the room was still high, and Macey hadn't formulated her response when the far door opened. Immediately, a sense of peace filled the place, as if a glass wall had shattered and allowed air to flow freely.
A woman glided through the door and Macey stared. She'd never seen anyone dressed like her: in a simple, undyed floor-length gown that reminded her of illustration plates of Lady Guinevere, with wrist-length sleeves that had cuffs long enough to d sooner rather than later., and 7Vrag on the ground. Her waist was cinched with a simple chain belt-silver-and her pale moonbeam hair reached well below the links. Two sets of three narrow braids at her temples were gathered back from her face and plaited together to hang down the back of her hip-length, loose hair. Despite her medieval garb, the woman carried a modern leather satchel.
She smiled at the three of them, and Macey felt another wave of unexpected warmth and comfort settle over her. She looked at Sebastian, who wore what could only be described as an expression of chagrin-as if he'd been caught with a hand in the candy jar. Chas stilled and seemed to sink deeper into the embrace of his armchair.
Neither of them spoke, and the woman turned calm gray-blue eyes toward her. Macey considered, but couldn't decide how old she thought the new arrival was. Certainly older than she, but not old at all. It was as if she were ageless.
The woman inclined her head. "Macey Denton. You are very nearly the image of your great-great-grandmother."
"But with her great-great-grandfather's eyes." Sebastian spoke at last, his voice low. Then he addressed the newcomer. "And what a sight for sore eyes you are, madame. I've been wondering when-or if-you might...er...grace us with your presence ever again." He gave a short, tight laugh.
She turned a bemused smile on him, and Macey watched in fascination as Sebastian's show of irritation eased. Once again she thought he resembled a shamefaced little boy, caught doing something wrong by someone he adored and yet feared. And Chas looked as if he wished to be anywhere but here, yet was afraid to get up and leave.
Macey, intrigued but not intimidated, spoke to her. "You seem to know me-and you're the only person so far to call me by my real name. But who are you?"
"I'm Wayren, of course." Her bemused smile widened as she glanced at Sebastian and Chas. "I'm not certain whether I should be pleased or offended neither of these two fine gentlemen have spoken to you of me."
"Since you haven't made an appearance in over a decade, I wasn't expecting to have to introduce you to Macey anyway," Sebastian said. "Aside from the fact that no mere words can do you justice, of course. Even I dared not attempt it." He gave her a genuine smile, clearly more at ease now. In fact, Macey thought she detected a definite sense of relief.
"It was time to return," Wayren said simply, then looked at Macey. Her gaze, though mild and warm, seemed to penetrate deep. "Your given name is certainly Denton, but more importantly, your legacy is Gardella. Have you made your decision?"
"I...think so."
"First it's try, and now it's think? For God's sake, there can be no hesitation for a Venator. You either take up the stake, wed it, and live with it, or you exist in ignorance!"
To Macey's surprise, Chas's outburst elicited nothing but a glance from Wayren. Not even a lifted brow for punctuation. She returned her attention to Macey. "Perhaps I should send them away so the two of us can speak without interruption."
At that, Macey smiled. "That's the most sense anyone's made since Temple dragged me out of The Gyro and tried to force me down the stairs to meet Sebastian."
"Indeed. I can imagine how that must have gone." Wayren laughed lightly and charming little crinkles appeared at the corners of her eyes, which had turned to a clear cerulean blue.
"I pushed him down the stairs."
"Of course you did."
She must have seen Macey's eyes flicker toward the ancient book in the cabinet, for the next thing she knew, Wayren was going over to it and then opening the doors. "This is the Gardella family Bible. The oldest pages have been in the family since the mystic Rosamunde recorded her prophecies in them at Lock Rose Abbey in the twelfth century."
Macey couldn't keep from reaching toward the aged, aged pages, then snatched back her hand before she touched them. She looked up at Wayren, who nodded permission. "The book belongs to you, Macey Gardella. If you choose to accept the call. Your name will be added on the frontispiece below that of your father's, where are listed all of the Gardella Venators who have descended in the direct line from-"
"Gardeleus," Macey whispered, remembering the story in The Venators. "The first Venator-a gladiator in first-century Rome."
Wayren nodded. "He was called on a quest to protect mankind and rid the earth of the immortal half-demon creatures descended from the betrayer Judas Iscariot. Those beings were given their immortality-and an unquenchable need for blood-by the fallen angel Lucifer." She turned to the back of the book, showing Macey the writing there. "See you here...the list of all the other Venators from far-flung branches of the family, or otherwise brought into the fold: Max, Sebastian, Michalas, Brim...and the list goes on to the present day. Martinus. David. Ranetti. Alphonsus. And Chas Woodmore."
When Macey touched the Bible at last, a shock of awareness, of vibrating, sizzling energy shuttled through her. Yes.
The word reverberated through her...not so much in her head or ringing in her ears, but within her. Yes.
Then she remembered the voice in the church: You can.
She looked up at Wayren, who was watching her with steady eyes. Macey was hardly aware Sebastian and Chas were still present; all of her attention was on the book and the serene blond woman next to her. She looked down at the aged tome once more. Something swelled in her, warm and full and peaceful. Certainty. Serenity.
"Yes. I'll do it."
At her words, it was as if the room itself savior who carries the deepest taintiv7V gave a great sigh of relief.
Or perhaps it was something inside Macey, that part which had been waiting for the chance to blossom and grow into what had long ago been planted.
"Very well then," Wayren said, her gaze still calm and warm. "Sebastian, do you have the vis bulla?"
He handed the blond woman an ornate glass bottle, hardly larger than his thumb. Its cork was fixed in place by a melted seal that glinted, as if the wax had been mixed with silvery dust. The small bottle was filled with clear liquid and inside was a delicate silver cross suspended from a hoop that wouldn't even fit over the tip of her small finger.
Macey's heart thumped harder as Sebastian broke the seal. She noticed for the first time he was missing half of the pinkie finger on his left hand, the hand on which he wore the red-stoned signet ring. But she was distracted from wondering how and when the accident occurred when he opened the bottle. As he poured the contents into his cupped palm, there was a small puff, followed by a bit of steam.
Sebastian glanced at her, the wince easing from his expression. "One of the many hazards of my condition."
He could easily have avoided touching the holy water, as well as the vis bulla. Macey didn't know whether he meant to show off for her-or Wayren, perhaps-or whether he had other reasons for exposing himself to the pain. It occurred to her then, also, that if he was a Venator, he too must wear a vis bulla. Did it cause him constant pain as well? The holy silver amulet against his undead flesh?
Sebastian handed the tiny cross to Wayren, who turned to Macey. "Steeped in holy water from beneath the Vatican from a font in the private quarters of the Venators-a place known as the Consilium-the vis is forged of silver. Every undead is repelled by this pure metal because it represents the thirty silver coins for which Judas sold Jesus. The amulet must be worn pierced through the skin in order to give the full benefit of its power. Only one who has been called to the Gardella Legacy, and who has also slain a vampire on his or her own, may wear and feel the effects of the holy amulet."
"But..." Macey frowned and looked at Chas, remembering the offer to show her his vis bulla. "I thought you weren't Called."
"I'm a special case. In more than one way." His tone was slightly less caustic than usual, due, she suspected, to the presence of the mysterious Wayren. "Perhaps someday I'll tell you how I came to be here, in the twentieth century, when I was originally from a much different time."
Wayren continued. "Chas is correct-there is that rare exception. If a mortal who is not born to the Gardella Legacy so chooses, he or she may attempt what is called a Trial. If he or she succeeds-and there have been many who tried and only six in all the centuries who have succeeded-then he or she is given a vis bulla."
"With all the same powers of a born Venator?" your great-great-grandmothert -
"Indeed. There is no difference except the new Venator has actually sought the chance to become a chosen vampire hunter instead of being called to it. And he has accomplished a task that could only be completed with the help of divine intervention."
Macey hesitated. But she had to ask. "What about my father?"
"Max Denton was a born Venator and an incredible warrior. He and his father before him." Wayren gestured to the table in the center of the room. "Now, if you are ready, Macey Denton, I shall arm you with the vis bulla."
Her palms suddenly sprang damp, but Macey climbed onto the table, sitting on the edge with her legs dangling off. "Where do you put it?" She reached for her earlobe, where many women wore pierced earrings.
"You may wear it wherever you wish, but most Venators choose to have it pierced through the upper lip of the navel. In that way, not only is it out of sight and protected from any undead who might use it to identify you, or worse, disarm you by tearing it away, but it is also very near the center of your body. Its power can more easily flow through every limb and elsewhere."
"Yes. I agree. That would be the best." Then, realizing what she'd just agreed to, Macey swallowed. Not only would it be uncomfortable, she would also have to bare her midriff in front of Chas and Sebastian. Her cheeks grew hot and, without meaning to, she looked at Sebastian. He caught her doing so, and, his lips twitching into a devilish smile, he held her eyes for a beat too long. His gaze turned dark and warm, like rich golden velvet. He didn't even need the flare of his glowing thrall to capture her.
Macey tore her eyes away, her insides fluttering with winged creatures, heat rushing through her body as she imagined his elegant fingers sliding over her bared flesh.
"If you will recline." Wayren's direction was mild, but Macey dared not look at the imposing woman for fear she'd seen the interplay with Sebastian.
Instead, she hoisted her legs onto the table and lay flat on her back, taking care not to expose any more of her thighs than necessary. Fortunately, she'd worn a skirt and blouse today rather than a dress, so it was simple business to work the top free from the waistband into which it was tucked.
The air was cool on the uncovered skin of her belly, contrasting with the warmth of self-consciousness flooding her face and throat and Wayren's easy touch on her abdomen. The blond woman paused to retrieve a pair of spectacles with square lenses from her satchel and she put them on as Macey tried to relax.
She drew in a deep breath, arms flat at her sides. Her attention fell on Chas, who stood next to Sebastian on one side of the table. He wore an inscrutable expression, something between pain and hope. His hands were curled into tight fists, hanging at his sides. Was he remembering when he received his vis bulla? That thought had her wondering where he wore it, and the image of a bare torso rose in her mind.
Would you like to see my vis bulla, Macey?
She swallowed and then gasped at the sudden, sharp pain at her belly. But Wayren's movements were smooth and quick, and moments later, Macey felt the slight, cool weight of the tiny cross settling into the hollow of her navel.
At the same time, a sizzle of energy and light flooded her. She felt it. She truly felt it.
Before she could do it herself, strong hands helped her upright-it was Chas-and she nodded her thanks to him.
"It's done," he said simply, then stepped away. His hand settled on his own midriff.
Sebastian was looking at her too, his golden brown eyes soft and warm. "Thank you."
"Welcome." Wayren handed Macey the empty bottle, its cork stopper back in place. "You may keep this if you like."
"Thank you." She took it. Then, very conscious of the sharp throbbing at her belly mingled with a sizzle of awareness, Macey tucked the shirt tail back into her waistband. "Er...now what happens?"
"You hunt vampires," Chas said. And grinned.
There were speakeasies and gambling houses and brothels...and then there was The Blood Club.
Chas didn't think much of the establishment's name, but it wasn't as if it were emblazoned on a sign over the door. Ah, no. Access to this exclusive club was limited to those who knew where to find it and how to enter.
Thus, he knew to patronize a tailor shop named Rico's, and to ask for the trousers he'd dropped off a week ago. "To be double-stitch hemmed over the back of the heel," he told the man behind the counter.
It was a different person every day.
Nevertheless, the man gestured to the back as whoever was behind the counter always did. "Third dressing room. You gotta go try 'em on."
Chas went into the indicated dressing room. Once inside with the door closed behind him, he swung open the floor-length mirror to reveal a large, dimly lit room. The familiar scraping sensation deep in his belly confirmed there were many undead in the vicinity.
At first glance, the place looked like any other saloon or cabaret. Tables were scattered about, some in darker corners than others. Many were booths with high, rounded sides. Decorated with red-swathed lamps, the space was unusually warm in temperature as well as appearance. Smoke and the scent of stale whiskey mingled with a pungent, metallic aroma. Despite the freshness of the libation of choice, a long counter with bottled options lined the short end of the room
Outside, the sun was still up, but that didn't matter-the small, windowless place was crowded. Smoke stung Chas's eyes, which were still becoming used to the dim light, as he wound his way through the tables. While there were no waitresses per se, there were other club employees scattered throughout: beautiful young women in short, bright dresses with glittery headbands, high heels, and boas, and handsome men in spats and tailored suits with bloodred ties. Some stood near the counter, others leaned against the side of a shoulder-height stage, others wandered from table to table, greeting the patrons and then sliding into an offered seat.
"Welcome to The Blood Club," said a throaty voice.
Chas turned, the gnawing in his belly very strong now, and took in the woman's appearance. Slender, blond-haired, with the paper-white skin of an undead, she was nevertheless an attractive creature with generous curves and full lips. No surprise, for the Club's proprietor, Count Alvisi, offered only the best service-whether from an undead or a mortal, depending upon the patron's choice.
"What's your pleasure, handsome?" she asked, showing a hint of fang from behind dark red lips.
Too soon for that yet, so he jerked a thumb toward the bar. "For now." He did allow his attention to linger over her before pushing on past, just to keep the option open. Sliding onto a stool, he ordered a whiskey. When it came, he tossed it back in one motion, then ordered a second before the bartender even walked away.
Vioget would say it was a waste to slam a good Scotch down without savoring it, but Chas had his reasons. And though the drink was smooth, aged, and pure-unlike the vast majority of liquor served in Chicago-if he was going to have any success tonight, he had an impression to make.
A short time later, he fumbled into his pocket to withdraw a bill to pay for four whiskeys. Then he slurred his thanks to the bartender and made a show of being potted off his arse. Sliding off the stool, he staggered and clunked his hand clumsily against the bar as he turned.
The blond vampire who'd greeted him watched from across the way, despite the fact that she'd seated herself at a table with what appeared to be a less interesting mortal-older, rounder, and grayer than him. That was no surprise; Chas attracted women as easily as a stake slid into an undead heart-a benefit of which he took great advantage. The blonde's eyes narrowed into obvious invitation, and Chas knew she'd ditch her current "customer" if he gave her the slightest bit of encouragement.
But he didn't. Not yet. Not until he decided on his own target.
The whiskey warmed him, made him a little too aware of his needs and desires-particularly with a sensual woman giving him that hungry look. At least she was blond. Blond was easier. Yet, every time he stepped into this place, it reminded him of Rubey's establishment, of being with the rav sooner rather than later., and 7Ven-haired, incomparably beautiful Narcise, of memories he'd tried to leave behind-his troubled past, falling in love with a vampire.
Wayren had offered him a way out, but even she couldn't eradicate history.
He continued on his path, and despite the amount he'd imbibed, Chas found he was still horribly steady and clear-headed.
Fuck. Perhaps he should have had five shots.
No. He didn't have the luxury of being impaired...not yet. Nevertheless, he made a show of being deeply into his cups as he wandered among the tables. It was easy as breathing for him to differentiate the undead from the mortals who'd come to play dangerous vampire games.
Now it was just a matter of finding one who could give him the information he needed.
A change in the air had the hair at the back of his neck lifting a little, and the gouging sensation in his belly grew stronger. Chas pretended to trip, and as he righted himself by stumbling against a table, he looked over and saw Alvisi entering the room.
The count was well over a century old, having been turned a vampire during the time of Victoria Gardella. Despite being undead and cloistered from the sunlight, he remained olive-skinned. He had thin, lank brown hair and a dapper personality: slender, lithe, and bordering on effeminate.
Every bit as in control as Al Capone would be when he walked into the Four Deuces, Alvisi captured the attention of every patron and worker as he surveyed the saloon. Instead of being accompanied by gun-toting bodyguards, on his arms were two attractive women. Taller than he, both were slender with curling strawberry-blond hair and almond-shaped eyes. Other ladies surrounded him as well, each one a different shade of blond, wearing a blue frock and headdress, each one tall and willowy. From his distance, Chas couldn't tell for certain which of the escorts were mortal and which were undead...a fact it was imperative he rectify before making his move. But at least now he had more of a target.
He navigated his way toward the large curved booth where Alvisi and his entourage settled in. And he caught the eye of one of the blondes as he slipped, still clumsy, into a seat at a nearby table. He didn't want to appear too sauced. Just enough to look like easy pickings.
The blonde noticed him. They always did, especially if he gave any encouragement. He smiled and shot her a hot look, and when she flashed her fangs at him, he felt a repulsive shudder of attraction. But just as she was about to ease away from the group to join him, a passerby cut in between them, slicing through their gazes. Thus distracted, Chas allowed his attention to shift around once more. His eyes fastened on another woman with long, inky hair that hung sleekly past her shoulders. She had a delicate, oval face, indistinct because of the smoke and the distance, but it didn't matter.
A hitch seized him in the gut, and he met her stare. He felt a little clammy; the effects
As the brunette stood, their connection broke, giving him the opportunity to draw in a breath designed to clear his head. Too late now. His pulse pounded, and his insides sloshed with whiskey, revulsion...and, goddam him, anticipation.
"I've never seen you here before," she murmured as she slid into the chair next to his. Now she was close, and other than the long, straight fall of shining hair, she didn't look anything like Narcise.
"I've never been here before," he replied, easier now. It was always good when he wasn't recognized. "But I thought I'd...try something new." He smiled-a balance of seduction and hesitance.
She licked her lips, showing the tips of her fangs. "Something new? Well, you've come to the right place." She was nearly in his lap, her hand placed intimately on his thigh.
"Do you have a name?" Chas asked casually, then leaned in to cover her lips. One cold, one warm...but he was used to the odd sensation.
After a long, thrusting kiss, he eased back, keeping his eyelids heavy as he traced a finger over her exposed collarbone. Even as he played the seducer-or the seduced, depending upon how one looked at it-he had one ear fixed on the conversation coming from Alvisi's table. He could only hear bits and pieces, and hoped the woman in his lap would fill in the rest.
"Valia," she replied, sliding her hand over his chest then up to play with his long hair. Her other hand slipped over the growing bulge of his cock. "My..."
He nibbled on her neck, then murmured, "Another whiskey first?"
"Of course." She smiled with delight and signaled the bartender. "And then...would you prefer to stay here, or find somewhere more...private?"
Chas gave her a long, slow smile, making his expression surprised and delighted. "That's permitted?"
She laughed, low and husky, and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, pulling the cloth away from his throat and shoulder. Blood surged in his veins, but Chas eased back slightly. Not yet, darling.
"The count allows us to do whatever our patrons wish. Whatever we wish," Valia told him, her attention focused on his throat. The drink appeared at his elbow, and when he made a show of digging out his money, she waved him off. "My treat."
"I certainly hope so."
She flashed a glow of ruby approval in her gaze and began to unbutton his cuff. Chas allowed her to do so, but he had to work quickly. His pulse was beginning to speed up, and she seemed determined.
"He...that man over there? Is that the owner?" he asked.
She began to roll up his sleeve, baring his wrist. The marks from previous bites had all but faded, and she wouldn't notice the faint scars in this dim light. "Count Alvisi. Yes, he is the owner."
"He looks as if he could give Al Capone a run for his money. Unless...is Capone like him?"
Valia gave a husky laugh, lifting his arm in her two hands as if it were a silver platter. "Capone? One of us? Not yet. But soon." She slanted a look up at him, her eyes at full glow, her fangs long and ready to plunge.
He licked his lips, his mouth dry. Not yet, goddammit. Curling his hand around the back of her neck, he dragged Valia up against him and covered her mouth with his. He didn't worry about being too rough. The undead were violent creatures.
She arched her breasts into his chest, releasing his arm in order to climb onto his lap even more, all the while matching his delving, thrusting tongue with her own. Then, giving a sharp twist, she nicked his lip with a fang. Chas tasted blood as their mouths smashed together, and felt the deep shudder trammel through her as she sucked brutally at the cut, drawing in a bit of his life.
He eased away when she began to unfasten his belt. "Let's go," he murmured, shifting his hips from her questing hands.
She was out of the booth before him, and when he stood, he remembered to stagger a little. "Follow me." Valia took his arm.
Chas didn't want to be seen leaving with her, but there was little he could do about it except keep his face averted and move quickly. The sooner they were out of sight, the less likely they'd be noticed.
By now, the whiskey had begun to soften his control and loop wickedly through his mind. Still, he was assured and confident as they slipped out of the saloon into a dark hall.
"This way," he said, tugging at her when she would have led him to one of the private rooms. He knew better.
Valia didn't resist; she would have no reason to. With superhuman strength and lethal fangs, she didn't fear a mere mortal man.
It was too bad she wasn't dealing with one. Chas hid his tight grin by backing her up against the wall for a long kiss and a serious grope between her legs. She moaned and hissed into his ear, and he felt the scrape of fangs against his bare throat. Ducking away just in time, he said, "Impatient, are we?" and directed her into the storage room behind the tailor shop.
He'd hardly closed the door when she was on him, kissing and tearing at his clothes. Her eyes were pink-red beacons in the darkness, and he stumbled back against a stack of crates under her onslaught.
They crashed into the wall, and even in the darkness, the room tilted and spun, and he had to the Night
He couldn't hold back a groan of pain and release as the blood burst free and he tumbled into that dark place of pleasure and need. She writhed against him, moaning and stroking, sliding belly to belly as she fed on his blood. He responded, sagging against the brick behind him, filling his hands with her breasts, allowing himself to think only of the moment...of the heat and rising release pulsing through him with each of her gulps.
When she pulled away, covering his mouth with hers, he tasted metallic blood. Revulsion surged deep in his belly, but eroticism pushed it away as he devoured the vampire's mouth. Chas shifted, moving so she was pinned between him and the wall. Her skirt lifted, she gripped his cock and guided him into place, all the while panting in his ear, moaning and gasping against his throat.
As he slammed inside her, blind with arousal and pain, desperate to fight off the darkness and find relief, she bit him again, viciously and deep. Chas cried out as the orgasm flooded through him, shuddering and quaking a violent release.
Then he spun away, staggering from her. When he turned, he had his stake in hand and in one smooth movement, he plunged it into her chest.
Valia froze, her ruby eyes flaring wide, her fangs pale and white in the dim light. Then she was gone in a cloud of ash.
Chas leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. The whiskey surged sickeningly in his belly, loathing and remorse washing over him in a dark, vile wave.
And yet his body still hummed and twitched, still breathed of repletion, still wanted.
"Sebastian."
"Giulia," he breathed, reaching for her. But his hand swiped through air and fell uselessly to his side, among the twisted blankets and sheets of his bed.
The movement threatened to pull him out of sleep, out of his dream. Caught in that moment in between the two planes, he fought to stay deep in slumber, to remain in the nocturnal realm with her. It had been so long since he'd dreamed of his beloved. He stilled, willing himself to slip back into the embrace of Morpheus...
"Sebastian." Giulia smiled at him, her eyes soft and filled with love. She was still there. "You are relieved."
"She accepted the call," he replied from deep in his slumber. "Now to finish it. And then the long promise will be kept."
She shook her head sadly. "But your work is not finished. You still w your great-great-grandmothert -ear the rings. There is more to come, mi adorate. You must be strong." Her dark hair swirled around ivory shoulders, her expression rosy and alive as it hadn't been in life. She stood at the side of his bed, so close he swore he felt her push against the mattress. He reached for her again, desperate, and again his movement was ineffectual.
But this time, when his hand fell helplessly to the bed, he lurched out of the dream. Fully awake. Damp with perspiration and hard with need, his heart pounding, the blood surging through his veins.
Flinging the bedclothes away, he sat up and looked around the shadowy, windowless chamber. Heaved a long, heavy breath. Wiped his eyes.
A burst of fury and loathing shuttled through him. He snatched up a glass from the table and whipped it into the wall. The fact that it shattered beautifully, exploding in a glittering rage, did little to calm his own.
By God, when will this be done?
Wasn't a century of hell long enough of a punishment? A hundred years of uncertainty, of temptation and iron control and loneliness, held together by the gossamer threads of an occasional dream and his own damned blind hope.
Every day he felt his hold on sanity waver and falter. He was exhausted, stretched taut and terribly thin. He felt like a candle that had burned down to the last of its wick and was nothing more than a tiny blue dot of flame, struggling in a deadly pool of wax.
And now that Macey Gardella had come into the fold, so to speak, he felt even more strongly the tenuousness of his battered control. She was his hope, his salvation-or so he believed, so he prayed-and yet she could just as easily be his downfall.
You must be strong.
Yes, and Macey too. She had no idea what awaited her.
Wayren had returned. That alone meant something; surely it meant something. She was the one who'd led him on this path-or at least shown him the way. A century ago, Sebastian had made his choice freely and with a pure heart. He'd done it for love of Victoria, but most of all, for love of Giulia and the reclamation of her soul. Though Wayren had not yet spoken to him directly, her very presence was instrumental in acquiring Macey's agreement to take on the vis.
But now...what more must he accomplish before he could be released from this hell on earth?
Even in the dim bedchamber, he could see, of course. There was no need for a light, and so when his gaze happened to fall on his right hand, his attention was caught by the glint of the ever-present rings.
Five of them. One on each digit. Made from slender copper strands, each braided intricately and uniquely.
Forged by the malicious and magnificent Lilith the Dark, the Rings of Jubai had been acquired through a variety your great-great-grandmothert -of means by Victoria Gardella, Max Pesaro, and Sebastian himself a century ago. And it was Sebastian who'd insisted on wearing the rings and plunging his hand into the enchanted pool at Muntii Fagaras.
But when he was up to his elbow in the dangerous, mercurial pool, Giulia appeared to him as a reflection in the waters. Instead of the haunting, sensual dreams he usually had of her, this time she begged him to save her-something he'd never conceived as possible. And thus he'd embarked on the impossible task of redeeming the soul of a vampire. A vampire he'd slain. One he'd sent to hell.
The copper rings, which must be worn in order to immerse one's hand safely in the pool, had fused to his fingers. And there they had stayed for decades. Sebastian knew the only way they could be removed was upon his death, for copper was the only substance that remained after an undead was slain.
For all he cared, Chas Woodmore or Macey Gardella could pike him in the heart tomorrow and have the rings, if that was what was needed to fulfill his "long promise" and set both him and Giulia free.
In fact, he prayed for it. Daily. On his knees.
He'd long ago lost his sense of humor over being a vampire with a tainted soul, praying for divine intervention. He was done.
Release me. Please release me.
The whole idea of hunting vampires was so incomprehensible Macey could hardly wrap her mind around it. But the delicate dangle of her vis bulla against the sensitive skin of her belly was a constant reminder of how her life was to change.
And then there was the training.
"Temple isn't a Venator?" she asked Wayren, who seemed to be the only person willing to answer her questions without prevarication-and without some ulterior motive.
"No indeed. Temple is your Comitator. She'll train you in the hand-to-hand combat styles of kalaripayattu, qinggong, and tae kwon do, as well as how to handle a variety of blades. Each Venator is assigned one such person to act also as bodyguard and companion-especially for their early days when things are still new."
"Bodyguard?"
"A Venator can't always be awake and aware," Sebastian told her with a wry smile. "And though Chas and I will be here, it never hurts to have someone to help. Don't expect her to come with you on the hunt. Temple's an excellent fighter, but she's not equipped as you are. Interestingly enough, most born Venators would have received some training before facing their first undead and receiving the vis. You took matters into your own hands. I do hope that isn't going to be a portent of the future, ma cherie."
Chas made a coincidence sly derisive sound, then lapsed into silence. Macey ignored him.
The same day she received her vis bulla, she began her training with Temple. They worked in a basement room beneath Cookie's Smart Millinery (apparently, Cookie really was Temple's aunt). The underground chamber was large, taking up what would be the same space as the back room of the millinery shop. But it was empty of furnishings other than a wall lined with cabinets. The walls were strung with electric lights, the floor covered with an unusual tile made from cork, and a stack of large cushions leaned against a corner. In the cabinets Macey saw an array of stakes, pikes, and knives-everything from scythe-like curved blades to finger-sized stilettos to daggers and swords of European and Asian influence. She wasn't surprised to note there were no guns to be seen, for a bullet would have no effect on a vampire.
But a sword, she learned, could be used to behead an undead, and was just as effective as stabbing one through the heart. Both actions resulted in the same explosion of undead dust.
Temple, her long, lean body covered by a pair of loose cotton trousers and a matching undyed tunic, looked fierce, elegant, and intimidating. Macey, dressed in similar clothing, barely reached to her trainer's chin, and the other woman had smooth muscles in her arms.
How am I ever going to do this? She's going to flatten me.
But when Temple lunged gracefully toward her, Macey reacted without thinking. She ducked, grabbed the other woman as she slipped beneath her arm, and on her upward thrust, fairly threw her across the chamber.
"Oh my God!" Macey gawked as Temple pulled to her feet. "Did I do that?"
Despite being dumped in a heap, the other woman was smiling broadly. "You certainly did." She dusted herself off and walked back, her almond eyes gleaming with challenge and anticipation. "This is going to be more fun than I thought."
Macey knew without being told she couldn't share any information about this new part of her life with the people Chas termed "civilians"-Flora, Jimmy, Mrs. Gutchinson, her boss, or her other friends. Even Grady, if she could count him as a friend. After all, she'd only known him for a few days.
Macey was also aware she had much to learn about the undead and how to combat them. But when Sebastian suggested she didn't need to report to her job at the Harper Library on Monday morning, she immediately disabused him of that notion.
"Of course I have to go to work," she said, adjusting her left stocking so the line up the back of her calf was straight. She was going to be late if she didn't leave in five minutes. "How else am I going to pay for my rent, or my food and clothes?"
"Rent? Cherie, you know you could live here, free of rent, and have everything you need." His voice dropped low and suggestive at the last bit, and Macey your great-great-grandmothert -felt a flush of heat swarm over her throat and cheeks.
"Absolutely not." But her heart pounded, and her gaze slid automatically to Sebastian's torso. It was covered properly by a fine tailored shirt. But she knew somewhere beneath it was a tiny silver cross...and she had a difficult time keeping herself from imagining how it would look against his golden, muscled skin. A flush moved up along her throat.
"But was my hospitality that poor last night?" He smiled and his gaze warmed. "Surely you found the bed comfortable, and you need not fear any unwelcome visitors while here."
She had stayed in a guest room attached to The Silver Chalice last night and was wearing clean clothing Temple had somehow located for her, but Macey wasn't about to make that a habit. For though Sebastian had been nothing but gentlemanly, she wasn't certain she trusted him...or herself. Not yet, anyway.
"I'm going to my job. Dr. Morgan is expecting me. After work, I'll meet Temple for more training. Then I'll return to my own flat, where I'll stay tonight." Her calling as a Venator might be important, but she had no intention of letting it take over her life. She'd worked long and hard to move from rinky-dink Skittlesville to the excitement of Chicago, to find her dream job and get her own place. She wasn't giving that up now.
Besides. A gal could only spend so much time fighting and learning how to use the curve-bladed kadhara. "Now I know how to protect myself from any undead entering my apartment."
"Yes." Sebastian's eyes narrowed. "And besides-since you killed the Guardian vampire who broke into your room, you have no need to fear him coming back. Presumably he gained permission to enter your house from that silly landlady of yours, who invited him in."
"Yes. He must have come to warn her and the other residents about the so-called gas main leak on Friday. That's how he was able to enter, and that's why no one was there when he attacked me." She settled her saucy new hat-courtesy of Cookie-in place and picked up her pocketbook. "When I get home tonight, I'll put some more precautions in place and try to find a way to tell Mrs. G not to let anyone in the house she doesn't know." Although that was going to be a challenge. "I'll tell her there's been a rash of robberies or something, and that the thieves have been scoping out the houses first."
And before Sebastian could attempt to dissuade her further, Macey left and went to work. Then she went to Cookie's to train, eventually made her way home, and collapsed in bed. She didn't remember anything until her alarm clock rang the next morning.
After this routine, by Friday morning she was slightly less exhausted but definitely sore from all her unfamiliar activity. And she had blisters on the inside of her thumb from handling knives and swords, not to mention stakes.
And so her life went for the next three weeks: working during the day and training with Temple in the evenings and on the weekends. Most of the time, she ended up sleeping in a small
When she got to work one Friday morning after a particularly exhausting week, Macey found two boxes of books sitting on her desk. They'd been donated by one of the university's benefactors, and though the volumes had been classified, they still needed to be catalogued. She spent the first few hours of her morning typing up a card with the Dewey code for each volume, plus ten copies of each. Truth be told, it might have taken her less time if she hadn't gotten sidetracked by a chapter on Greco-Roman bricklaying (fascinating!), a diagram of the interior of Tutankhamon's tomb compared to that of Rameses II, a description of how absinthe was traditionally fermented, and the bound collection of love letters between Dolley and James Madison.
When she finally finished typing the cards, Macey inserted the appropriate bookplates announcing the donation and then imprinted the raised library seal on each title page. Then she took the books, as many as she could carry and by classification, into the depths of the stacks. As the director's assistant, she could have sent them down for one of the pages to put on the shelf, but Macey loved books, and loved roaming the stacks. She never knew what she'd find among the rows and rows of shelves.
The scent of old and new books mingled-dusty, musty, and with the sharp tinge of glue and fresh paper. On the main floors near the reading rooms, the shelves were comfortably spaced and loomed high over her head. She needed a step stool to reach the top three rows. But in the basement stacks, the ceiling was very low and the metal shelves were close. Some enterprising person had painted floor and stacks numbers and arrows on the floor and walls so as to ensure none of the students would get lost in the labyrinth and be wandering therein for hours-or days. (That was, according to Dr. Morgan, an old joke among the library staff-where to look for the medical students if they didn't show up for their final exams.)
Macey went to the basement level with her last group of books, making her way through the Philosophy and Religion section. With no natural light down there and random lamps studding the ceiling, the space was dim and shadowy in areas. The pages were at lunch, and it was empty and quiet among the rows of books.
But as she bent to slide a book into its new home, she heard the soft scuff of someone's shoe. The sound was so faint she almost thought she imagined it. But the air gave a subtle shift and the hair on her arms lifted, prickling uncomfortably. She shoved the book in place on a lower shelf and rose, looking around. It was a library, and students and faculty visited constantly. Even with the pages gone to eat, someone else among the stacks wasn't a surprise. But Macey's heart was pounding hard, and she found herself vibrating with awareness as she listened and waited. Someone was there, and he or she was trying to be abnormally quiet.
Then she heard it again...the faintest sound, the breath of a shoe against the concrete floor, the shift in the air accompanied by a subtle new scent-crisp and a little smoky. Absent was the sound of books being taken off the shelves or papers crinkling-the normal noise of a student or professor in search of a research volume.
All at once, a book fell from the shelf next to her. It landed flat on the floor at her feet
A dark eye peered at her through the empty slot on the shelf, and she felt a rush of relief when she recognized it. Though her knees were still a little wobbly, her breathing steadied as she snatched up the fallen book and shoved it back into place.
"Steady nerves you have there," said Chas as he sauntered into view from around the corner. "Definitely the making of a good Venator."
"You take great delight in sneaking around and popping up on people, don't you?" She collected the rest of the books she needed to shelve and held them against her like a shield.
"One must find amusement where one can." He skimmed his dark hand over a row of book spines and casually plucked out a selection.
"What do you want?" Macey saw no reason Chas should distract her from work, so she started walking toward the TA-TE row, leaving him to follow if he chose.
"Temple says you're doing extremely well with your training." He was right behind her as she turned down the main aisle, her heels thudding purposefully on concrete until she found the section she needed.
"That's not what she told me." Macey shoved her pile of books into Chas's chest then turned to make room on the shelf for a new addition. In fact, Temple had been ominously silent about her progress, or lack thereof. So much so that Macey was planning on skipping her session tonight.
It was Friday, after all. She hadn't done anything but work, train, and sleep for three weeks, and Chelle had left a message that she and Dottie were planning on going to the grand re-opening gala at The Palmer Hotel. It was open to the public, if you could get a ticket-or, in Dottie's case, if you were dating the hotel's assistant manager. She'd wrangled four tickets through him, and Macey and Flora were invited too.
The message reminded Macey she hadn't heard from Flora since that morning she showed up at her flat, when Grady was there. More than three weeks ago. Macey had a feeling her friend wasn't very happy with her.
And then there was Grady.
Yes, the handsome Irishman had certainly popped into her mind more often than he should have. Especially whenever she noticed the broken broomstick that still sat on her bureau. He'd actually stopped by the library last week, wanting to take her for a cup of coffee. But she'd been in the middle of a project and had to decline. Besides, he was probably mostly interested in grilling her about the vampire situation.
Chas watched her as she shifted the books and aligned them on the shelf. "Temple says she can tell you are quite gifted, even at this early stage. So, we're going out tonight, you and I. Bring a stake. And wear something that shows off your legs." When she spun to glare at him, he merely smil coincidence slyed and handed her a book-surprisingly, the one for which she'd just made space on the shelf. "See you tonight, Macey. Be ready to spill some dust."
He set the remainder of the books on an empty spot next to the TAs and slipped away. By the time she realized he hadn't told her where to go or what time to meet-and, more importantly, that she didn't want to go anywhere with him anyway-Chas was gone.
"Wear something that shows off my legs my eye," she muttered, already considering what she could wear that didn't. Because pretty much everything she owned did.
Then she smiled. What was she worried about? She wasn't going anywhere with Chas. She had other plans.
"That is an adorable chapeau." Chelle reached to finger the velvet roses adorning Macey's headband-like scarf. "I love the detail. Where did you get it?"
"It's a new place I found called Cookie's." Macey gave her companions directions to the shop, figuring Temple's aunt could always use the business, then looked up and down the street again. "Have you heard from Flora? Is she coming?"
Macey, Chelle, and Dottie were standing outside the front of the Palmer, which rose twenty-five stories above them in an elegant brick structure. Although the entire hotel had been renovated and expanded over the last three years, it had remained open during the entire time. But now that the work was finished, there was to be a gala to celebrate the largest hotel in the world being completely redone.
Flora, if she was coming-for no one knew for certain-was late, and they'd been waiting for nearly thirty minutes. Automobiles and taxis bogged down the street, pulling up to the curb and stopping traffic. The bellmen were non-stop, assisting jewel-and-fur-clad women and fashionable men from their vehicles and beckoning them into the hotel. The sounds of loud, excited conversation and jazzy music spilled into the evening air every time one of the doors opened.
The sun had just sunk below the city skyline, and the last bit of pink-orange in the sky was fading. Streetlights were already on and the bright lights from Joony's Vaudeville and the uptown B&K motion picture theater blinked enthusiastically from opposite ends of the block. On nights like this, Chicago was colorful, well lit, and boisterous-a far cry from one-cross-street Skittlesville. Macey loved the vivacity and the activity. She felt as if she belonged here.
"I want that lady's boa," Chelle murmured into her ear as a woman climbed out of a dark red Cadillac. "The pink feather one? With the sparkles?"
"Darling. And it would look so snappy with your coffee-colored frock."
"Right. The one with the seed pearls. Yes." Chelle smoothed her perfectly straight brown hair, tucking the short strands back so they flipped forward in a perfect curl around her ear. "And look at her shoes."
Chelle was a little taller than Macey, and rounder in the hips and bosom, but she knew how to dress fashionably to suit her body type. She worked at Field's Department Store and got great discounts on the best clothing, which she, in turn, passed on to her friends. She was the one who'd introduced the Simington Side-Lacer to them as an alternative to binding the breasts, as the most trendy flapper dresses required, and for that, Macey was eternally grateful.
"It's chilly out here." Macey pulled the smoky gray velvet wrap closer around her shoulders and throat. She was wearing a calf-length slip of sheer pink material over a short opaque under-dress with slim shoulder straps, and the ensemble-though very fashionable-was little protection against the cooling April air. Her shoes were a soft dove color, and she'd clipped a black bow with jet beads onto each one, and wore gathered gray gloves. The outfit had cost an entire paycheck, but she'd been saving it for a special occasion. And this was definitely one.
"Here comes Al," someone said behind them, and Macey looked up.
"Oh my God...that's Al Capone!" hissed Dottie needlessly as she grabbed at her two friends' arms.
Sure enough, the infamous gangster had just stepped out of a sleek black automobile. Rumor had it the vehicle was armored, which wasn't a surprise since his colleague and former boss, Jimmy Colosimo, had been gunned down only a few months ago.
Capone was dressed in a white suit with a black shirt. A red tie and red and black spotted handkerchief added color. His hair was slicked back, and he didn't wear a hat, so his jowly face and heavy brows were fully evident. He was a solid man, stocky and yet surprisingly graceful. A cadre of men in dark suits surrounded him and kept the rapidly gathering bystanders at a distance as their boss laughed jovially with one of his companions. He paused on the sidewalk to jest with three other men who'd alighted from the same vehicle. Macey vaguely recognized them from pictures in the paper, but she didn't know their names.
"Mr. Capone!" A flashbulb popped. "Is Johnny Torrio ever coming back?"
"Hey, Snorky! Are you going to meet with the new mayor?" called another voice. Laughter spattered through the audience, for everyone knew Capone and Mayor Thompson were already very cozy.
"Mr. Capone! What do you think of the city council meeting about banning smoking on the street?"
The gangster gestured to the crowd at random, his cigar clamped between two thick, powerful fingers. "Now you don't want to get me talking about business tonight, boys. I'm here to have a good time-and check out the competition." He laughed and breezed on into the hotel.
Macey shivered, a chill lifting the hair on her arms. She couldn't believe she'd been less than ten feet away from one of the most dangerous men in Chicago.
"How much longer should we wait for Flora?" Dottie was standing on tiptoes, presumably hoping
"I left another message at her boarding house earlier today," Chelle said. "Said we were going to meet here at seven. Her landlady said something about her being at work, though. It's quarter till eight. She must not be coming. Let's go in! I wonder if that lady will tell me where she bought her shoes."
"Yes. Even though we have tickets, Ben warned me it could get too crowded with crashers, and they might have to stop letting ticket-holders in." Dottie took one last look up the street, frowning. "That's too bad for Flora. I hope she at least got the message. That landlady of hers is a real bitch, and always drunk to boot."
Macey felt more than a little guilty as she followed her friends inside, but they couldn't wait on the sidewalk all night. Then a spur of excitement nicked her as she stepped into the hotel lobby.
Crowded with people, the space nevertheless didn't feel close because the ceiling was so high. Graceful arches painted gold with art deco designs rose three stories above them. Red upholstered chairs and sofas were arranged in clusters throughout the lobby, the tables between them laden with massive vases of flowers.
"Ben said to go toward the north-side dining area and find the powder room. There's a cabaret in there, if you know the password to get in. We do." Dottie's eyes gleamed and her smile was bright. With her light blue eyes and shiny blond hair, she was an interesting mixture of sass and innocence.
"We do?" Chelle asked, dragging her attention away from a woman in a red dress with gaudy makeup and a feathered turban. "Wait. There's a cabaret in the powder room?" She giggled and tucked her hair behind her ear.
Macey rolled her eyes and gave her a nudge. "Silly. Not in the powder room. Let's go before it gets too crowded." She adjusted her wrap, still a little chilled even though they'd come inside.
Dottie was already leading the way. "Come on."
They found the powder room, which was a work of art unto itself. It was a Z shape with a row of private stalls to the left and the counter to the right. Past the sinks was another small wing with two large stalls, presumably for those who needed more room. The lounge was decorated in black enamel with gold and dark red trim. Vases of red roses sat on the gold and white marbled counters. The attendant sat in a chair offering hand towels, lotions, and perfume to each woman as she finished washing.
To Macey's surprise and interest, Dottie walked past the sinks and turned into the row of the larger stalls. She went into the farthest one, situated in the far corner of the small alcove. When Macey and Chelle hesitated, Dottie poked her head back out and beckoned.
They exchanged amused glances and ducked in after her. The door, which, unlike most stall doors, went from floor to ce sooner rather than later., and 7Viling and swung closed behind them. Inside the small space was a sink with a mirror over it, and a commode.
Dottie looked in the mirror and Macey was just about to poke her to get the show on the road when she raised both hands next to her ears and gave the mirror a pair of thumbs up.
All at once, the empty wall in the stall moved, swinging back into nothingness.
Dottie stepped through, and Macey and Chelle were right behind her. Only a week ago, Macey might have been more hesitant to walk through a secret door into darkness, but she was very conscious of how things had changed. Despite the lingering soreness of her muscles, she knew she had the power of the vis bulla with her-as well as having learned some potent self-defense moves from Temple. They would be just as effective on mortals as they would be on the undead.