Despite the fact that she and her friends were up past three o'clock, talking and giggling, Macey didn't sleep well at Dottie's. She had too many things to worry about, too many things on her mind.
So though dawn was barely breaking at five-thirty, she left and went back to her flat, secure in the knowledge that at least she wouldn't encounter any vampires. And most likely, if Grady or Chas had been waiting for her, they'd've given up by now.
She tried not to think about the possibility of Capone's thugs waiting for her too.
But there was no one threatening lurking about, and Macey slipped up the stairs to her flat. She tumbled to bed and slept for a short time, then got up and went to work-all without seeing anyone, even Mrs. G. (Although she heard her talking loudly on the telephone when she passed by her door. ) When she was finished at the library, she stopped by Cookie's. Temple wasn't there, but there was an adorable new hat Macey commandeered. Then she went home and got changed to go to Flora's.
But when she arrived at her friend's boardinghouse, Macey hit a dead end.
"That Flora's not here," said her bad-tempered landlady. She reeked of spirits, and Macey had to step back off the stoop to keep from being overcome by the fumes. "She's got that job now. "
"What kind of job? On a Saturday night?" Macey glanced up the street, hoping against hope she'd see her best friend loping home on her long, freckled legs. She smothered a pang of guilt. If she'd been around instead of being so busy with Temple for the last few weeks, she'd know all about Flora's job. They would have gone out to have a celebratory cup of coffee or, better yet, a chocolate sundae at Frank's.
"Saturday? Is it Saturday?" The woman looked around as if to see the day of the week written in the twilit sky.
Macey gritted her teeth. "What job? Where is she working?" Maybe she got a position at a department store. Chelle worked on Saturdays sometimes.
"Some place. . . I don't know. " The landlady-whose name Macey could never remember-shook her head as if trying to sort out her memory.
"When does she usually get home?" Maybe if she waited long enough, she'd catch Flora coming back. It was nearly seven o'clock. And if there was one rule her best friend had, it was Fridays and Saturdays were for fun. Since she'd missed the gala at the Palmer last night, surely Flora had social plans for tonight.
In anticipation of this, Macey had already dressed to go out in a loose, silky frock with a dropped waist, perfect for vigorous dancing. Two strands of fake pearls hung to the wide sash at the bottom of her hips and another of Cookie's hats-this one a crocheted cloche-sat on her head. As she stood on the stoop, the handkerchief-style dress hem fluttered pleasingly against her calves in the gentle spring breeze.
Macey looked up th
e road again. Surely Flora would be coming home soon, getting ready to go out-even if she wasn't going with Macey. But. . . if she was working for one of the garment factories, she might not get off the clock until seven, or even later. Those girls worked long hours for low pay, and in such cramped spaces.
The landlady blinked, then refocused. Macey could almost hear the slosh of moonshine in the woman's brain. "She just left! I tell you that girl just left for her job. She don't come home till all hours of the morning now. Wakes the whole house, she does, slamming the door. "
Macey felt an uncomfortable squiggle of concern and guilt. Working at night, coming home in the darkness-such a habit was more dangerous a prospect than she'd realized even a month ago. Now she knew the undead lurked and lingered along with the more common threats of thieves, rapists, and gangsters.
The April evening was getting cooler now that the sun had gone down and Macey pulled her wrap closer around her shoulders, wishing she hadn't given away her heavier velvet one last night. "I need to find her. Do you remember anything about where she's working? Anything at all? A restaurant or theater maybe? You must remember something. "
The landlady scratched her red-veined nose. "Nah. Nothing. Maybe a blue circle, though. " Her bleary eyes became focused. "Yes, that's right. She wore a blue circle to work. "
She wore a blue circle? Whatever that meant, Macey didn't know how she'd find out, for the landlady was clearly finished with the conversation and slammed the door without warning. Probably needs to get back to her hooch.
Chapter ELEVEN
~ Wherein Our Heroine is Taken for a Ride ~
Macey landed in the backseat on her hands and knees, and before she could recover, another rough shove sent her sprawling face-first onto the floor amid several pairs of shoe-clad feet. The floor was gritty and spattered with oil, and a heavy, cloying scent filled the air.
She noticed one female and two male pairs of shoes just as the auto door closed. "Keep her down," someone growled.
A hand twisted a fistful of her hair and whipped her to the floor again. Pain streaked over her scalp, her knees were scraped and bruised, and she was out of breath, taken utterly by surprise. She hadn't managed missing- the man a squeak, let alone a scream. The vehicle started off with a gentle lurch, and she kept her head lowered for the moment, panting, as she looked around from her vantage point among her abductors' feet.
The back of her neck felt as if a block of ice was pressing there, which told her she was in the presence of more than one undead. And the backseat of this auto was unlike anything she had ever seen. It was roomy, and there were two bench seats, facing each other, like on a train. A covert look told her there was a third seat facing forward, where the driver sat. Surrounding her were three pairs of male shoes and one pair of Mary Janes. But something was wrong with the Mary Janes-and the feet they were on. Even in the dim light, she saw one high-heeled shoe dangling awkwardly from an unmoving foot, its strap catty-wonker and the button loose. The legs attached to the shoes sagged open.
A shiver streaked up Macey's spine, this one having nothing to do with the presence of an undead. She looked up the woman's body and saw the blood. Everywhere. It stained the front of her clothing, running in long rivulets from multiple wounds on her neck, shoulders, and wrists. She couldn't see if she was conscious, for the woman's head was tilted back into the shadows.
By now she recognized the dull, heavy smell in the air. Macey drew in a deep breath and realized the oil on the floor was not oil but blood. She closed her eyes, fighting back nausea and terror. This is not good.
And it wasn't Al Capone. . . unless he'd sent some vampires after her.
She was trapped in an auto with three undead. No one knew where she was. And her stake-the one stake she'd added to her pocketbook at the very last minute tonight-was in her pocketbook, which she'd dropped as she was shoved into the auto.
"Macey Gardella. Thank you for joining us. "