~ The Difference Between Hawks and Hounds ~
Macey followed Chelle and Dottie down the steps from the balcony, all the while staring out over the crowded room. She held tightly to the railing so she wouldn't trip, for her attention was not on her descent. Despite her intense observation, it would be impossible for her to tell who was a vampire, unless she was standing next to them.
Which meant, she realized with a sudden unpleasant quiver in her belly, that she should probably figure out what to do if she did find one.
Had she brought a stake?
No. She didn't have room for one in her tiny pocketbook, and frankly, she hadn't thought about it. She didn't plan on seeing any vampires tonight. It was her day off. Her evening out.
Heart pounding, lips pressed together tightly, Macey wove her way through the crowd in Dottie and Chelle's wake. There wasn't anything she could do at the moment. She'd have to play it by ear.
The woman in the blue dress had finished her song and, after accepting an enthusiastic but random smatter of applause, left the stage. Moments later, a group of seven young women in shocking, skintight outfits that showed most of their legs and a deep vee of cleavage on each one, took the singer's place. Around the crown of the head each of them wore a headband with tall, graceful feathers and a great number of sequins. A small band to the side began to play loudly, with an emphasis on brass and percussion, and the ensemble launched into their act: a singing and dancing routine that seemed to capture the full attention of every male in the place.
Including Al Capone.
Macey couldn't help but notice the gangster, who'd taken a seat at a round, high-walled booth next to the stage. He seemed to be enjoying the performance, along with the others in his group. savior who carries the deepest taintH5lap
Just after receiving her vis bulla, she'd heard Sebastian and Chas talking about Capone and Count Alvisi, who was a powerful and dangerous vampire. From what she'd gleaned, they were concerned Alvisi would get to Capone-who was his mortal equal when it came to violence and power-and turn him into a vampire.
Being turned undead required some participation on the part of the victim. After being drained of most of his blood, the mortal must then drink the blood of the siring vampire. Then he or she would slip into a state of unconsciousness, and upon awakening, would be turned.
The other fear expressed by Sebastian was if Capone wasn't made undead, then he might be enticed into becoming involved with the Tutela.
"What's the Tutela?" She figured she had the right to know what they knew, being a new Venator and heir to Il Gardella-whatever that meant. She'd read a little about the secret group in The Venators, but Macey had already learned there was much information missing or misconstrued in Mr. Starcasset's book. Thus she took none of it at face value.
"The Tutela is a secret society of mortals-men and women-who like to be around vampires. They are usually interested in becoming immortal undead themselves-or at least think they are," Sebastian added with a grim smile. "They have a particular fondness for being fed upon by the undead, and are often obsessed with the lifestyle they crave for themselves. The vampires use them as servants or associates, for, of course, the undead can't move about in direct sunlight. Having a loyal group of mortal followers who can do so, thus affording protection and conducting any business during the daylight hours, is a benefit to the vampires. And the mortals are lured by the benefits of power, protection, and-once having proven themselves-immortality, by pledging their service to the Tutela."
"There are people who actually enjoy being fed upon? Being mutilated like that?" Macey couldn't comprehend that concept. She still remembered with revulsion the violation of her own flesh and blood when the vampire bit into her neck. "One would have to be insane to enjoy such a horrible thing. It's no wonder feeding on a mortal is the point of no return for an undead."
"It's not your place to judge. The same has been said for those who shoot their veins with heroin or smoke opium," said Chas flatly. "Or even imbibe in spirits. Hence the Temperance movement, imposing its own morality on an entire nation."
Sebastian looked as if he were about to say something, then merely shook his head.
Macey got the impression she was missing some undercurrent, but before she could probe further, Sebastian continued on a different topic. "Your ancestor Victoria attended a Tutela meeting in Venice as Count Alvisi's guest. Back in 1819, I believe it was. Or thereabouts. He wasn't undead at the time, but he was already wearing that abominable lavender after-shave cologne. It left a bloody damn cloud behind him everywhere he went. At least one always knew when he was in the vicinity."
"And so he is a vampire now?"
"One of the most powerful ones. He and Nicholas Iscariot are particularly close minions of Lucifer. And both of them are here in Chicago. I'm certain it can't be a coincidence." Chas looked from Macey to Sebastian.
"Iscariot. A relation of Judas, I suppose."
"Of course. The son of the Betrayer and brother of Lilith the Dark. Nicholas was imprisoned by his sister, and only upon her death did he gain release. He's been wreaking havoc in Romania, Turkey, and Moscow for the last century. But what on earth has brought him here, I cannot fathom. He and Alvisi are fierce rivals and mortal enemies." Chas looked pointedly at Sebastian. "Unless he's realized the rings are here."
That was when Macey learned about the Rings of Jubai, the five copper bands fused to Sebastian's fingers. "There is a magical pool in Romania to which these rings will give access. Inside the pool is, according to legend, a pyramid-shaped object that can yield great power to mortal and immortal alike. One can only suspect Iscariot has tried every manner of dipping his hand safely into the pool, and has finally decided to attempt the one sure way of breaching the magic shield." He brandished his ringed hand.
"That puts you in danger, then," Macey said.
Sebastian's eyes glowed with humor, and his beautiful lips twitched. "Indeed it does. As it has done for decades. But I thank you for your concern."
Now, as Macey watched Al Capone and felt the telltale iciness at the back of her neck, it occurred to her that perhaps Count Alvisi had already accomplished his goal of turning the gangster into a vampire. Her mouth went dry and her organs turned into blocks of ice.
I can't stake Al Capone. I wouldn't get within a foot of him before those goons shot me. But then again, that could be the reason no one had been able to kill him yet. He was impervious to bullets.
"I thought you didn't go into speakeasies."
Macey nearly jumped out of her skin at the low voice in her ear. She stifled her surprise, however, and turned to find Grady at her elbow. The ice inside her melted into something much warmer and friendlier.
"What are you doing here? Covering the cabaret's entertainment for the Tribune, I presume?" She looked up at him-all blue eyes, unruly dark hair, and broad shoulders. His square jaw and cleft chin were clean-shaven, and he smelled like something masculine and fresh. Her heart stuttered. He sure cleans up nice.
"Something like that." Grady stood close enough she could feel his warmth against her bare arm. "What are you doing here? Hoping to find a vampire?"
Macey nearly choked. "What?" Her heart thudded harshly, the last vestiges of warmth fritter directions blooding away.
He took her arm, leaning in closer. "Don't tell me you have a stake in that pocketbook of yours."
"Hey, Macey! Who's this?" All of a sudden, Dottie and Chelle were standing there expectantly. Chelle's eyes danced as she looked from one to the other, and she wagged her brows at Macey. Fortunately, Grady wasn't looking.
Macey made introductions, reminded again she didn't know his full name. She felt odd about it, but her friends didn't seem to notice. She was relieved when they launched into an animated conversation with Grady, who responded to their nosy questions (how do you know Macey, what do you do for a living, do you come to these places often) with charming aplomb.
It gave Macey time to collect herself. Grady's questions weren't jokes; he'd been completely serious. But what did that mean? And how should she respond? Yes, as a matter of fact, I am a vampire hunter. But I forgot to bring a stake tonight. And I'm stalking Al Capone because I think he's an undead. Call me crazy.
Macey came back into the conversation just in time to hear Grady say, "Now, ladies-a word of warning. Don't be drinking the whiskey here. Or anywhere cheap. The beer is usually all right if you really must imbibe, but anything stronger than that-whiskey, rum, or gin-is too dangerous."
"You mean illegal." Was Chelle actually fluttering her eyelashes at him?
"That too. But unless you're about knowing where it came from, lass-where and how it was distilled-don't drink it." He turned sober eyes on Macey. "Too many poisoning deaths from liquor distilled from methyl and wood alcohol. Even a small amount can be lethal. But it's easy and cheap, and it's what the low-level bootleggers are using all too often. I've seen the results."
"Surely the Palmer would pay for good booze," Dottie said.
Grady lifted a brow. "Surely the Palmer wouldn't admit to paying for any booze."
"Oh. Right." She blinked and smiled.
"Thank you for the warning," Macey replied. "Although I wasn't intending to partake tonight."
"Want to keep your mind clear because you're on the job, lass?" he murmured, his voice rumbling just below the cacophony around them and somehow going straight to her ears.
She merely lifted her brows and tried what she hoped was a mysterious smile. "Speaking of jobs...don't you have a story to investigate? People to interview? I'm going to visit the powder room and...powder my nose."
Before he could respond, she ducked away into the crowd.
In the powder room, she found a place between two other gals in front of the mirror and checked her ref flew openpa bloodlection. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright, but her hair still looked good. The wide headband with the velvet roses on it kept her wild mass of curls under some control, and they tumbled pleasantly around her jaw and the nape of her neck. Her velvet wrap was a little warm now that she was in a crowded space, but there was nothing else she could do with it. And her pocketbook...
She glared at it, and at the memory of Grady's interrogation. The bag wasn't large enough to hold a damned stake and he knew it. And what was he thinking, asking her something like that anyway?
Surely he couldn't know. Surely he was just trying to figure out what he could. And she supposed she couldn't blame him. After all, he knew she'd staked a vampire. And...hell. He'd spent the night in her flat. Stake in hand. A little quiver of pleasure reminded her how he'd looked that morning, all rumpled and fierce, with his weapon in hand.
Macey refreshed her rose-tinted lipstick and, last of all, powdered her nose. And then, figuring she'd wasted enough time and hoping Grady was involved with something else, she left the mirror to return to the cabaret. On the way out, she noticed an umbrella stand by the door. There were two umbrellas and a walking stick in it. All had wooden handles.
Glancing behind her to make sure no one was watching, Macey filched the only one with a straight handle. Then, in a trice, she broke the umbrella about four inches from the end. Thanks to her vis, doing so was like snapping a toothpick. And now she had a makeshift stake that would actually fit-diagonally, at least-in her pocketbook.
Relieved and filled with purpose, as well as a renewed spike of nerves, she walked out of the powder room.
Grady was waiting outside the door.
"You again. Just like a bad penny."
He smiled and offered her his arm. "Have I mentioned how bloody sensational you look tonight, lass?"
"No."
"If you'd care to take a stroll over to one of those tables, where I can be sitting you next to me and drownin' myself in your deep brown eyes, I'll be more than happy to tell you how keen I am on you." His crinkly-eyed smile had her insides warm and fluttery again, and reminded her about that luscious kiss in her flat.
"I suppose I could agree to that." Though I'll be the one drowning in someone's eyes.
As they walked to the table he'd somehow procured, Macey noticed the chill on the back of her neck had eased. She looked around. Capone's booth was empty, and she didn't see him anywhere.
She couldn't deny it-a wave of relief washed over her. I'm not in the mood to face a vampire tonight. And I'm certainly not ready to face Al Capone as a vampire.
"Looking for your friends?" Grady asked as he gestured to a small round booth. Just big enough for two, the seat enabled them to face the cabaret stage where a jazz trio was now performing. A candle burned on the center of the small table, and goblets with seltzer water were already poured. Paper-thin wedges of orange, lemon, and lime were arranged on a small gold-edged plate.
"No. I was wondering if Al Capone had left." Macey slid in and adjusted the silky fabric of her slip-dress so it didn't show too much thigh. "I don't see him anywhere anymore."
Grady's expression hardened. "I didn't take you for being one of those gangster-celebrity watchers."
"No, not at all. It's just...I've never seen him before tonight, and to be honest, being in the same room as a gangster is a little unsettling. I just wanted to know where he was."
"So he doesn't sneak up on you, you mean?" Now he was smiling, and his eyes had gone warmer. "Don't worry, lass. I'll protect you."
"Do you see them often? Gangsters? You must, if you're a newshound."
"I prefer newshawk. Hound-the word, not the animal-has such unpleasant connotations. And a hawk is strong and graceful, as well as being a fierce fighter."
"Thank you for that clarification." Macey's tone was nonchalant, but inside she was turning to mush. Smart, literate, charming, and someone she could actually imagine being a strong, fierce protector....Grady was definitely more hawk than hound.
"And in answering your question: Yes, I see and interact with the gangsters a lot. It's an odd thing. Everyone knows they're violent criminals, yet they walk the streets without fear of repercussion." His tight mouth and fierce eyes told her exactly how he felt about that.
"Except they fear one another."
He looked at her and nodded, his eyes sober. "Those men are repulsive-for what do they stand for but violence, greed, and pure hedonism? And yet, damn it, even though it nearly kills me to say it, I can't deny the bootleggers do provide a useful service."
Macey was fascinated by his honesty-and his integrity. "What useful service? Breaking the law?"
"By organizing and regulating the breaking of the law. That warning I gave you and your friends tonight about drinking the whiskey here? I was serious. If you don't know where it comes from, you could drink something fatal. Saloons serve up poison drinks made from industrial alcohol all the time because it's cheap and relatively easy to come by. At least we know that the beer Capone's saloons serve comes from proper breweries. And his whiskey is the same. From a real distillery. You're not going to get watered down methyl alcohol from one of his places. And that, at least, is one benefit. Despite Prohibition, people are going to drink spirits. At least if they drink Capone's, there's less of a chance they'll die."
"Grady stiffened, his eyes going flinty again. "Don't think that for a minute, Macey. I have no respect for that murderer. Nor for any of them-the Gennas, the Torrios, the Weisses. Any of them. They've spilled enough blood in this city-both innocent and otherwise. All in the name of greed. I'd be more than happy to see them behind bars, which is one of the reasons I do what I do. Some day, somehow, each of them will be caught out, and justice will be served. If I'm a part of taking them down, I'll die a happy man."
"What about your uncle?"
"Since my aunt was killed in gangster crossfire, you can be sure he feels the same way, to the bottom of his heart-and that'll never change. And let me tell you, lass, he and I-we're in the minority. But that's why those bastards still walk the streets and carry their automatics and run this city-because the cops and the mayor and even the governor are in their pocket. They like the money and power too much to come down on them, so they offer protection instead."
Macey shivered and realized how uncannily similar the description of the corrupt authorities was to that of the Tutela. And how the vampires were very much like the gangsters, wielding underlying power as they controlled their turf. They were invincible. Untouchable.
It was no wonder Sebastian and Chas were worried Capone would be turned undead. That combination of power and influence along with immortality and strength would be lethal.
"Did you know Big Al goes to confession once a week? As if that'd save his soul. I'll be damned, but I'd like to be a fly sitting on that priest's shoulder." His intensity eased a little, the laugh-lines at his eyes appearing once again.
Macey laughed at the mental image, which somehow included a fly wearing a priest's collar, and her shoulder bumped against his.
"By God, you're it." Grady touched her cheek with a gentle finger as he looked down into her eyes. "I've had a hard time keeping my mind off you, Macey Denton."
"Why would you want to do that?" she replied cheekily, even as her heart thudded harder.
"I don't know," he murmured. "I must be a damned fool." He leaned in, gently gathering her near, and settled his lips on hers.
Macey shivered lightly and pressed closer, then slipped her tongue out, teasing it over the seam of his mouth. He inhaled sharply against her and curved a hand over the back of her neck. Gently nibbling on the edge of her mouth, Grady shifted her so she was nearly sitting in his lap. The kiss grew deeper and Macey felt hot and cold at the same time. She forgot to breathe, forgot they were in the middle of a semi-public place, forgot everything but the hot, sensual stroke of his tongue and the full, erotic brush of his lips.
The heat bubbled up from her middle, flushing over her torso and along her throat as the kiss went deeper and hotter. She felt damp and moist, and the insistent twinge between her legs grew stronger, turning into a delicate little throbbing.
Then a brush of cold air whisked over the back of her neck, beneath his warm hand, raising the hair along her sensitive nape and tiny little bumps on her skin. A faint hint of nausea accompanied the chill and had the effect of yanking Macey from the depths of a hot, languid place she didn't want to leave-and back abruptly into the secret cabaret beneath the Palmer Hotel.
Where an undead was present.
She pulled away, more sharply than she intended, and had Grady smiling with chagrin. He glanced around as if to see if anyone was watching, then looked back at her. "I lost my head for a minute." His Irish was heavy and thick, and sounded rich and musical on his tongue.
Macey was trying to steady her breathing and look around for Capone-or whoever the undead was-at the same time. She couldn't see well enough from their table, however, and much as she was enjoying herself-really, really enjoying herself-she knew she had to at least try to investigate. "Tell me again why you're here, if it's not for the booze?"
"I didn't say it wasn't for the booze. I'm Irish. I can tell a fine whiskey when I taste one." His smile turned slow and warm, and Macey got the distinct impression he wasn't talking about spirits any longer.
She couldn't control a warm shiver. Damn, but I've got to ditch him.
"Now don't be doing that sort of thing, biting your lip like that, lass, because you're going to make me lose my head again."
She smiled and covertly scanned the room again. "Don't you have to interview people? Or take notes for the story you're writing?"
"I have the distinct impression you're trying to get rid of me, Macey." The warmth in his eyes eased, and he looked at her intently. "What's going on?"
"I just feel bad I ditched my friends. Dottie got us in here, and it's supposed to be the three-well, the four of us, but Flora couldn't make it. I should probably find them."
He looked at her a moment longer, then, with a tilt of his head, nodded reluctantly. "I'd forgotten the female species tends to travel in packs."
"Most of the time." Then she allowed a spark of mischief into her gaze. "And then there are other times when three is definitely a crowd."
His eyes widened just enough to let her know she'd hit the mark. "You're about killing me, lass." But he sighed and slid out of the booth, then offered her a hand to help her do the same. "And I suppose you're about right-I'd best be getting to work. Editor got me a press pass, and he'll expect me shiver caught her by surprise, and 7V to get at least a few good quotes and do a good write-up. But don't leave without saying good night."
"Hmmm," was all she said, but with a smile and laughter in her eyes.
Macey strolled through the crowd, keeping to the perimeter of the room while trying to appear nonchalant. In reality she was trying to "read" the chilly sensation that indicated a vampirical presence and determine who was causing it.
When she saw Al Capone standing nearby, surrounded by a cluster of dark-suited men, she veered in that direction. To her chagrin, the chill didn't ease as she made her way toward the group, and Macey was certain the temperature was becoming even cooler.
In a moment of nervous absurdity, she remembered a game she played when she was young. An object was hidden, and as she tried to find it, the hider would tell her whether she was "hot" or "cold." This was almost the same thing, except the closer she got to the hidden object, the colder she got.
If only she could get Capone alone. But that would not only be impossible, it would be suicidal. What would Chas do if he were here?
Macey submerged another wave of discomfort. She'd ditched him too, tonight. Of course, he deserved it-the way he announced they were "going out" and to bring a stake. And to wear something that showed off her legs. The jerk.
She wondered if he'd come to her flat to pick her up, or if he expected her to meet him at The Silver Chalice. Or Cookie's. That was a good excuse, come to think of it. He hadn't told her where or when to meet him, and so she'd made other plans.
And if she could come back to The Silver Chalice and tell him and Sebastian she'd staked Al Capone...
For the first time, excitement spurred her. She was a Gardella, after all. A descendant of Victoria. She could do this. According to Sebastian and Chas, and even the intriguing Wayren, she was born to hunt vampires.
Macey slipped her hand inside the flap of her pocketbook and curled her fingers around the makeshift stake. She hovered near the wall, in a corner-like indentation behind a cluster of tables. A tall potted plant strung with tiny lights obscured her from the rest of the room. Unless someone was looking closely, she doubted they'd notice her.