Bookshelves lined one wall in the living room, which was furnished with two sofas and an armchair. The shelves were filled with books on a variety of topics, and bibliophile that she was, Macey walked over to examine the selection. It was an amazing library, broad in subject and yet filled with depth. Biographies, atlases, mechanical instruction manuals, and books on mathematics, biology, chemist
ry, and physics-not to mention two shelves of fiction. Including Dracula and Polidori's short, The Vampyre.
On the kitchen table was a typewriter and sheaves of paper, which Grady tidied into a neat stack as she looked around. Notebooks and pencils littered the counter and coffee table. A stack of newspapers sat on the floor next to the armchair. A camera with its strap looped around it was on a side table next to the chair, along with a telephone. There was mail addressed to "Mr. J. Grady" (well, that answered the question about his name). On a compact table in the corner was a jumble of mechanical objects and tools: padlocks, keys, handcuffs, timepieces, and wires of all shapes and sizes.
"I wasn't expecting company," he said, picking up a mug and then a pair of shoes. "But I'm glad you're here. "
"It looks comfortable. And cozy. " She lingered at the shelf over a fireplace, examining the array of photographs, suddenly feeling awkward.
The pictures were a welcome distraction. Many were city streets that definitely weren't Chicago. There was one of Grady with his Uncle Linwood and a pleasant-looking woman she assumed was the aunt who'd been killed in gangster crossfire. Then Grady with two other men sitting at a restaurant table, toasting each other with beer mugs. Another of Grady, tall and straight, dressed in an Army uniform and standing next to a broad-shouldered, muscular man who looked familiar. It took her a minute, and then she recognized him as the great Harry Houdini. Next to it was the photo of a bride and groom along with Grady, and what looked like a wedding party. Most of the images were framed, but there were some loose ones with curling edges, stuck behind others.
So different from the stark, austere flat in which she'd slept last night. By contrast, Chas had nothing in his living space except furnishings, food, and whiskey. He'd offered her his bed, but she opted for the sofa, and once she was settled, he told her he was going out.
"There are a lot of hours left of the night," he told her, yanking a hat down low over his forehead the United States government ar something and hefting a stake.
This morning, she awoke to find a note advising of his return, suggesting toast for breakfast, and informing her he'd be awake by noon. To Macey's surprise, her half-drunk glass of whiskey was still on the counter next to the message.
She had no idea when Chas came back; he must have been incredibly stealthy. And she had no desire to wait for him to wake at noon, even though she hadn't told him about her encounter with Big Al, for, in a blast of desperate hope, it had occurred to her she might have been mistaken about Chelle. So she'd scrawled her intention on the bottom of his note and left.
Grady spoke, breaking into her thoughts. "Do you want anything?"
You.
The thought popped into her head so unexpectedly and with such ferocity Macey blinked. She realized it was true on many different levels, and the certainty of it baffled her.
"No. " She went to the window and looked out, wondering how the group of children in the courtyard could be playing tag so innocently when there was so much evil surrounding them.
Couldn't they feel it? Couldn't they sense it?
"You're involved in something serious-and dangerous. After what happened Friday night, you can't deny it anymore. Tell me, Macey. "
She shook her head. There was simply no way to explain it and not sound looney. She didn't want to talk about it. She wasn't even ready to think about it. Chelle was dead. Mrs. G was dead. Not just dead, but tortured. In Macey's bed, which had been a clear and obvious warning. And Flora-
She spun from the window. "Grady. My friend, Flora. . . oh, God, what if she's next? What if they got to her?" She started for the door, but he moved swiftly and intercepted her.
"Tell me her name. Her address. I'll have Linwood check, make sure she's all right. " He took her shoulders, his long-fingered hands steady and warm.
"She's working at a place at night. I don't know where. I haven't heard from her in days. If they get her too. . . " She pressed her lips together. "Or Dottie. " It was all she could do to keep from shrieking and wailing.
What was happening to her? To her life?
"Where is she working?" Grady's voice was calm. He took her by the hand and brought her to the sofa, then picked up the telephone receiver.
"I don't know. "
He handed her a paper and pencil. "Write down her name and address. I'll call the station and have Linwood or someone go to her house. If she works nights, she should be home sleeping now, right?"
Macey took the paper and wrote Flora's information on it with a shaky hand, and then Dottie's as well. "Will you have your uncle check both of them?"
Grady nodded, his face grave. "Sit down. There isn't anything you can do right now. "
But that wasn't true. Not at all.
Macey was a Venator. The person who could make a difference, who could hunt down the bastards who'd killed her friend. Wasn't that her calling? Her responsibility?
According to Sebastian and Wayren and Chas it was. But, despite the vis bulla, the training, her encounter with Iscariot, the concept was still unfathomable.
Utterly exhausted-physically, mentally, emotionally-Macey wandered around Grady's home while he called the police station. A glance out the window told her it was many hours until dark. Until the evil ones would come out. She had time.