Roaring Midnight (The Gardella Vampire Chronicles | Macey #1) Read online

  Roaring Midnight © 2013 Colleen Gleason

  All rights reserved.

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  A Note to the Reader

  This book begins the saga of Macey Gardella, Vampire Slayer.

  If you’ve read the previous books in the Gardella Vampire Chronicles, which feature Victoria Gardella, Max, Sebastian and a variety of other characters, I hope you’ll find this series as compelling as the original five. Many of the questions you may have had after them will be answered…and some won’t, at least in this volume.

  If you haven’t read the original five books (listed below), know that you can dive into this new series without feeling lost. This is a self-contained trilogy that doesn’t require you to have read Victoria’s books. However, because this series does take place about a hundred years after Victoria’s books, note that there will be some spoilers for the original five stories.

  At any rate, I hope you enjoy the read—wherever you choose to begin.

  I love to hear from readers; feel free to contact me with questions or comments through my website or Facebook page.

  — Colleen Gleason

  June 2013

  ~*~

  For new readers who want to start from the beginning, the Victoria series is as follows:

  • The Rest Falls Away

  • Rises the Night

  • The Bleeding Dusk

  • When Twilight Burns

  • As Shadows Fade

  • “Northanger Abbey” in the anthology Bespelling Jane Austen (loosely connected).

  There is also a short e-story that would have taken place during The Rest Falls Away, which acts as a sort of teaser/preview to the series. It’s called Victoria Gardella: Vampire Slayer.

  Happy reading!

  PROLOGUE

  ~ A Warning ~

  Chicago, 1925

  Sebastian Vioget placed his palms on the bar and leaned forward. The large ruby signet on his left hand glinted in the golden light. On his right five fingers were the ever-present copper rings that had once belonged to Lilith the Dark. Sebastian allowed his eyes to glow just enough to give the man on the other side of the counter a clear warning. “If Iscariot or Alvisi get to her before she’s ready, I’ll kill you.”

  The other man was swarthy as a Gypsy, with too-long black hair and jet eyes. He shifted lazily, appearing unmoved by his host’s threat. “You’d have to catch me first.”

  “You know very well I could.” Sebastian eased back from his threatening stance. The bastard across from him was nearly as cocksure as his old friend and nemesis Max Pesaro. Damn good thing they were on the same side.

  At least, as far as he knew.

  He didn’t trust the other man any more than he trusted anyone—aside from Wayren. Who, incidentally, had been annoyingly absent for the last decade or so.

  His visitor, the last of the night’s patrons—and one who could actually leave once it was dawn—chuckled. “Some day, I’m certain we’ll find out if that’s true. I’ll even let you chase me after sunset to make it fair, Vioget. I wouldn’t want you to cry foul.” He lifted the fullest bottle of whiskey from the counter and gestured with it before slipping it into the inner pocket of his overcoat. “This is a far sight better than the hooch Capone peddles. My deepest gratitude.”

  “The Silver Chalice serves only the best, legal or no,” Sebastian replied. “Always has, regardless of what continent it’s in.” The Volstead Act’s prohibition of the manufacture or sale of alcohol was a ludicrous proposition. As if the United States government could control what he chose to ingest.

  Hell, Sebastian had a hard enough time controlling it himself.

  He refrained from glancing toward the bottles of the other type of libation he stocked—for himself only. Even the thought of the rich, heavy lifeblood filling those vessels was enough to make his gums throb and his fangs begin to unsheathe. The familiar need swelled, rushing inside him, pulsing through his body, turning his vision rosy.

  He reached automatically for the silver vis bulla that hung beneath his shirt, sliding his fingers through the opening to touch the tiny cross. The holy metal burned, but he welcomed the subtle pain. It reminded him he could still feel.

  It reminded him why he was still here.

  Giulia.

  He’d given everything for Giulia.

  And for Victoria.

  His guest didn’t seem to notice Sebastian’s discomfort; he was intent on adjusting his enveloping overcoat and hat. He always wore his fedora unfashionably low over the forehead, to the eyebrows. “I’ll be on my way then. See if there’s any news on Capone, if Alvisi’s made any move on him.”

  That likely meant the man was headed to The Blood Club. Where else would a vampire hunter go to find undead, or to extract information from the undead? Not that Sebastian approved of the way Chas Woodmore went about doing so, but he wasn’t a judgmental sort. Not like Pesaro had been. And particularly in this case, when it was so bloody important, he didn’t care how depraved Woodmore was.

  “The sooner the better. We have to stay more than a step ahead of him and Iscariot. Once either of them find her—”

  “I see her every day, on her way to and from her job, Vioget. They haven’t found her yet. And they don’t have any idea about me. She’s safe for now.”

  “She has the book. It’s only a matter of time until the dreams begin.”

  “And once that happens, you must convince her to accept.”

  I will.

  The other man looked at him with those cold, dark eyes and Sebastian turned away. He didn’t need Woodmore to see the desperation in his own gaze. The long promise and the sacrifices he’d made would be for naught if a single woman denied her legacy.

  After a hundred and two years, one would have thought it would have become easier to wait. And accept.

  But it hadn’t.

  ONE

  ~ Coincidences and Mistakes ~

  Macey Denton woke abruptly, bolting upright in bed.

  Her heart was slamming so loudly the sound filled her ears, and cold sweat made the nightgown cling to her skin. She was breathing fast and hard, and felt as if she’d been running for hours.

  She had been running—scrambling through a dark forest, along the shadowy streets, across grassy backyards…in her dream.

  “It was just a dream,” she told herself, as if saying it aloud would dispel the last vestiges of the terror.

  Moonlight cast wrinkled silver beams across her mussed bed, and Macey glanced nervously toward the window. A gentle spring breeze wafted through the small opening. The sounds of automobiles trundling by, distant shouts and even something far off that sounded like gunshots…just the normal night sounds of Chicago.

  Nothing was out there. Nothing with glowing red eyes or gleaming fangs.

  It was just a dream.

  Moonlight reflected off the face of her alarm clock. It was hard to clearly read its numbers, but she could make out the vague shape of the hands. Three o’clock.

  Drat it. She had to get up for work in three hours and she’d already stayed up too late reading that old book. It sat on her bedside table, beckoning temptingly—just as it had when it appeared at the library office yesterday.

  The Venators by George Starcasset.

  The slender book was ragged and worn, its leather corners bumped and rounded. It was an odd publication, with no title page listing a publisher or even a copyright page. It appeared crude and inexpertly made. That
was why she hadn’t put it on the pile to be catalogued at the library…yet. She was curious. The printing was awkward and imperfect, unlike the neat rows of letters that came from her typewriter. Clearly, it was more than a hundred years old. And though she had no idea who or what a Venator was, Macey had been compelled to pick it up. She turned through the first few pages, taking care not to crack or tear the delicate paper, and saw unfamiliar words like vis bulla and Tutela.

  And then she shoved it into her satchel to bring the book home. For research.

  It turned out to be about a family of vampire hunters. And despite the fact there was, of course, no such thing as vampires, she found herself swept up in the world of the men who risked their lives to hunt the demonic beings.

  That was the reason for her nightmares.

  ~*~

  As she hurried along the busy sidewalk, Macey tugged the felt hat down over her ears, making sure its little brim curled up saucily in the back.

  Well, she would have been hurrying, glad to be on her way home from work, if her feet weren’t so darn sore. The new shoes she’d sprung for with her first paycheck—shiny black Mary Janes with sassy black and white organza bows—were still a little tight, and Dr. Morgan had had her running errands in them all day long.

  Even though she loved books and absolutely adored her job at the Harper Memorial Library at the University of Chicago, Macey normally wouldn’t mind being sent out of the office as a break from the re-shelving and filing of catalogue cards—but it had been drizzling since noon today, making it chilly and messy outside.

  And because she’d overslept again (thanks to those darn dreams), she’d forgotten her umbrella and dashed out of her boarding house in a rush. Thus her hat and stockings had gotten damp and stayed that way for the rest of the day. Even the rabbit fur around her coat collar had wilted. Thank goodness it was removable.

  The top few floors of the Lexington Hotel, where Al Capone lived and reigned, were visible over the rooftops. She’d walked past the luxurious brick and terracotta building on Michigan Avenue many times—and had even delivered an old book there once. (She counted herself fortunate she hadn’t seen Capone himself.)

  On each occasion of passing the hotel, Macey couldn’t help but look for the gangsters with the so-called Tommy guns that were rumored to patrol the place. It was common knowledge that Snorky, as Capone was called, owned the city—from the mayor on down to half the police force, as well as a variety of businesses. Nightclubs, restaurants, meat-packaging facilities, funeral homes, and illicit ones—like breweries—as well.

  He was, some said, more powerful than the president of the United States. And despite the violence and countless illegal activities he controlled, Chicagoans were fascinated by him. Capone liked to present that he was a sort of modern-day Robin Hood, providing services to the masses from beneath a repressive, controlling government—and there were some who lauded this position.

  Macey didn’t have much of an opinion. She’d moved to the city only eight months ago and was still enamored with the tall art deco buildings, countless shops, and variety of entertainment. As long as Capone, Torrio, Moran and the like didn’t bring their violence to her, she intended to ignore them.

  An old, open-style Model T trundled past her on the street. She dodged when it drove through a shallow puddle, but she wasn’t fast enough and the automobile sent water spraying on her legs.

  “Drat!” she muttered, pausing to twist around and look down at the back of her flesh-colored stockings. They were speckled with dark flecks of mud.

  “Hey, doll, where ya goin’ in such a big hurry?” An admiring whistle followed.

  Macey glanced down the alley at a man unloading crates. Her landlady, Mrs. Gutchinson, was always complaining about how the latest fashions, with skirts stopping just below the knee and sheer stockings, seemed to give men permission to be vocal and obnoxious. Instead of responding, she continued along, making her way on the sidewalk with scores of other people heading home at the end of the work day. Everyone seemed to be walking more quickly than usual because of the damp April chill.

  She passed a second truck being unloaded in another alley and two skinny kids trying to woo a cat out from beneath a porch. There was a man sitting on one corner with a tin cup on the ground as he sang long and low and sad. Occasionally, someone dropped in a coin.

  A man walked along ahead of her, holding the hand of a young blond girl in a darling pink coat. She danced and chattered, twirling around on the end of his hand, and pointed at things as they walked along. Her father smiled down at her and nodded, and once even paused to crouch and look at something she found on the sidewalk. They made a sweet picture—the image of a girl with her daddy.

  Macey dragged her eyes away, ignoring the dull, familiar pang of anger and grief.

  On the block ahead, she saw the shill who regularly enticed passersby to stop and play dice or shell games. His normal crowd was nonexistent, for today there were only two victims trying to outsmart the con as he shuffled the upside-down cups and kept up a patter designed to distract from the movement of his hands. On her first day going to work at University of Chicago’s library, Macey had been lured in by his invitation. Ten minutes later she’d walked away—a dollar poorer and late to work on top of it.

  Since then, she’d avoided getting too close to that side of the block, even though he regularly called out to coax her back. But one day she was going to try it again, and she’d win.

  By now, Macey was almost limping from a blister at the back of her right foot. That would teach her to wear new shoes without giving them a chance to stretch out first. And there seemed to be another sore spot developing over the big toe on her left foot.

  Double drat. That was going to make it a little painful dancing at The Gyro tomorrow evening. She’d be hobbling instead of shimmying, which would make for a long night.

  She rounded the corner onto Quincy Street in order to avoid the insistent shill and his cups, and plowed into a man standing there.

  “Oh, pardon me,” she said as he reached out to catch her arm and steady her.

  “I’m sorry, miss.” He stepped away from where he’d been looking at a sign posted in a bulletin board on the brick wall. “I should have been watching.” Beneath his fedora, he had strong, dark brows and blue-gray eyes that were sharp and intelligent. They seemed to take in every detail of her with one sweep.

  “I wasn’t watching either.” Instead of continuing on, Macey took the opportunity to give her sore feet a rest.

  And aside from that, he was an attractive man, probably in his late twenties. What little she could see of his hair appeared dark under the shadow of his hat, and he had a solid, square chin that looked as if it had been a day since it was shaved. Taller than she—but what man wasn’t?—he wore a dun-colored trench coat that had a button hanging loosely from its threads. Because he wasn’t wearing gloves, she could see his ink-stained hands were well formed and sturdy. No wedding ring.

  Trying to give the impression she was waiting for a bus or for the traffic to clear so she could cross the street, Macey glanced at the board to see what had caught his interest.

  There were some flyers announcing a sale at Thomson’s Furniture along with several posters promoting a jazz trio at The Leonine, a vaudeville act at Prego’s on Vashner, and some others that were faded and torn. “Planning to go see The Armbruster Trio?” she asked.

  “Not at all. I was actually looking at this one.” He stabbed a finger at a hand-lettered sign off to the side.

  Its ink had run, but Macey could still read it. Missing: Jennie Fallon. Last seen March 29, 5 o’clock, at Vashner and Michigan.

  The description of the young woman of twenty was partly obliterated by weather and damp, but Macey had seen enough. March 29 was more than a week ago. Her stomach soured and she looked up.

  “Do you know her?”

  “No.” He snatched the paper from its mooring, crumpling it into a ball. “And no one ever will again.
Her body was found this morning.”

  “Oh no,” she breathed, her insides tight. The woman had been her age. “Oh, that’s terrible. What happened to her?”

  His mouth drew up flat. “You’d best be taking care, miss,” he said, and for the first time she noticed a bit of the Irish in his voice. “It’s not safe for a young woman out alone, especially after dark. I don’t know you, but you look just like the sort of girl Jennie Fallon was: young, pretty, one that likes to go out dancing in the clubs and getting into trouble in the speakeasies—”

  “I beg your pardon,” she said, suddenly a little nervous. Was he a policeman? “Why on earth would you think I know anything about speakeasies?”

  He looked at her, his eyes a more intense blue now—steady and knowing. “You can be saving your innocent protestations for the cops, miss. I’m not here to condemn or judge.”

  “Well, I nev—”

  “Her body,” he continued, speaking over Macey’s breathless indignation, “was mutilated. Throat and chest torn to ribbons.”

  “My God, that’s horrible.” Her annoyance evaporated. “The poor, poor woman. Do they know what caused something like that?”

  “I can only assume that by ‘they,’ you mean the authorities.” All trace of his brogue was gone. “As if they have time to investigate the disappearance of a poor young woman when there are gangsters to be cared for. But no, no one is certain what caused such a terrible death.”

  “Maybe it was a mad dog or some other wild animal. Or…or…a vampire.” This last came out as little more than a mumble, but he must have heard.

  “A what?” He was staring at her with the same shock she felt coursing through her own body, along with mortification that such a ludicrous comment had come from her lips. “Did you say vampire?”

  “I….” Macey fumbled for an explanation. She had no idea why those syllables had come out of her mouth. “I was just…joking,” she said lamely. “It was a silly thing to say.” She shook her head, miserable and mortified. As it tended to do, her mouth had taken on a life of its own, speaking before her brain caught up. She had vampires in her reading, vampires in her dreams, and now vampires reared their ugly fangs in everyday conversation.