Roaring Dawn: Macey Book 3 (The Gardella Vampire Hunters 10) by Colleen Gleason
Authors: Colleen Gleason
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“The exhibit looks fascinating.”
“I’ll find you later,” Temple said with a discreet wink.
Macey wandered off in the wake of a delighted, low-throated laugh from her friend, and saw no reason to hold back a smile of her own. Dr. Sevin was surely the reason Temple had been in such a good mood lately. Even with the loss of Sebastian and dark threats on the horizon, she had something to be happy about.
Macey’s smile faded as the reality of her own life set in. Hell. All she had was a vampire lord who was out to get her and seemed able to make her bleed at will, and the realization that she’d probably not live to see her twenty-second birthday.
Oh, and a father who might still be alive—if one could believe the likes of Nicholas Iscariot—and, by the way, hadn’t bothered to get in touch for more than thirteen years.
Macey’s life was just a meadow full of daisies.
But sulking, she told herself firmly as she paused in front of one of the photographs, was not the way to spend an evening when Cookie had worked so hard to fix her dress and do her hair all pretty for the occasion. She was here to have fun, and to be a walking display for the older woman’s fashion creations. And, if the opportunity arose, to shove her stake in a few undead hearts.
Macey had had her choice, and she’d made it—signed her life away to the Venators and the fight against immortal evil. She’d made the decision to be alone and never marry, to give up the chance of happiness and a “normal” life…to live in the world of difficult decisions and too much knowledge about the insidious evils on this earth.
And so perhaps she should focus her attention on saving the world instead of…other things. She should find Mayor Dever and attempt to speak with him, to see what she could discover about Nicholas and hope for clues of what he might be up to, and where he might be hiding.
She was about to turn from the photograph when the hair on the back of her neck stood up and she felt a swift rush of awareness.
And then she heard his voice.
The bottom dropped out of her belly and her heart kicked off beat, too fast and hard. Macey stilled, staring at the photograph with unseeing eyes as the air stirred, and she sensed him moving toward her from the left side of the exhibit hall. Everything prickled and went hot and warm and cold, and back again.
It took every ounce of control not to sneak a peek at him from out of the corner of her eye as he walked closer, speaking to someone—a female, it sounded like. Of course it would be a female. A man like Grady, with all that thick walnut hair, Irish charm, and expressive blue eyes, was irresistible to women.
Macey mentally lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. Then she blocked him out, waiting for him to pass by, and concentrated on the photo, really seeing it for the first time.
It was the stark image of a street, many stories below, shot with automobiles cruising along, pedestrians on the sidewalk, street lamps, benches…and when she realized how the photograph had to have been shot, her heart clutched again—but for the cameraman this time.
For the image was taken straight on, directly downward, as if the artist was suspended over the center of the street—not from a building or a balcony, but something that allowed—she checked the photographer’s name—S. Ellison to look directly over the middle of the street.
The sides of the buildings stretched down, down, down along the periphery of the photograph, neither side close enough for the picture to have been taken from either of them.
“And this one. Paris, I think?” The subtle Irish in a familiar voice slipped over her like a warm blanket.
Macey closed her eyes against the wave of grief and regret, then gritted her teeth.
Of course Grady and his companion had paused at the very place she stood. Out of all the images in the whole damned exhibit, they had to stop at the one she’d found. Because her life wasn’t
“I’ll find you later,” Temple said with a discreet wink.
Macey wandered off in the wake of a delighted, low-throated laugh from her friend, and saw no reason to hold back a smile of her own. Dr. Sevin was surely the reason Temple had been in such a good mood lately. Even with the loss of Sebastian and dark threats on the horizon, she had something to be happy about.
Macey’s smile faded as the reality of her own life set in. Hell. All she had was a vampire lord who was out to get her and seemed able to make her bleed at will, and the realization that she’d probably not live to see her twenty-second birthday.
Oh, and a father who might still be alive—if one could believe the likes of Nicholas Iscariot—and, by the way, hadn’t bothered to get in touch for more than thirteen years.
Macey’s life was just a meadow full of daisies.
But sulking, she told herself firmly as she paused in front of one of the photographs, was not the way to spend an evening when Cookie had worked so hard to fix her dress and do her hair all pretty for the occasion. She was here to have fun, and to be a walking display for the older woman’s fashion creations. And, if the opportunity arose, to shove her stake in a few undead hearts.
Macey had had her choice, and she’d made it—signed her life away to the Venators and the fight against immortal evil. She’d made the decision to be alone and never marry, to give up the chance of happiness and a “normal” life…to live in the world of difficult decisions and too much knowledge about the insidious evils on this earth.
And so perhaps she should focus her attention on saving the world instead of…other things. She should find Mayor Dever and attempt to speak with him, to see what she could discover about Nicholas and hope for clues of what he might be up to, and where he might be hiding.
She was about to turn from the photograph when the hair on the back of her neck stood up and she felt a swift rush of awareness.
And then she heard his voice.
The bottom dropped out of her belly and her heart kicked off beat, too fast and hard. Macey stilled, staring at the photograph with unseeing eyes as the air stirred, and she sensed him moving toward her from the left side of the exhibit hall. Everything prickled and went hot and warm and cold, and back again.
It took every ounce of control not to sneak a peek at him from out of the corner of her eye as he walked closer, speaking to someone—a female, it sounded like. Of course it would be a female. A man like Grady, with all that thick walnut hair, Irish charm, and expressive blue eyes, was irresistible to women.
Macey mentally lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. Then she blocked him out, waiting for him to pass by, and concentrated on the photo, really seeing it for the first time.
It was the stark image of a street, many stories below, shot with automobiles cruising along, pedestrians on the sidewalk, street lamps, benches…and when she realized how the photograph had to have been shot, her heart clutched again—but for the cameraman this time.
For the image was taken straight on, directly downward, as if the artist was suspended over the center of the street—not from a building or a balcony, but something that allowed—she checked the photographer’s name—S. Ellison to look directly over the middle of the street.
The sides of the buildings stretched down, down, down along the periphery of the photograph, neither side close enough for the picture to have been taken from either of them.
“And this one. Paris, I think?” The subtle Irish in a familiar voice slipped over her like a warm blanket.
Macey closed her eyes against the wave of grief and regret, then gritted her teeth.
Of course Grady and his companion had paused at the very place she stood. Out of all the images in the whole damned exhibit, they had to stop at the one she’d found. Because her life wasn’t
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