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 glanceded in a wry smile. I to investigate 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.
AndZJ- 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 image of your great-great-grandmother. "
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.