Roaring Dawn: Macey Book 3 (The Gardella Vampire Hunters 10) by Colleen Gleason Page A
Authors: Colleen Gleason
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interesting enough as it was. Fate had to stir the damned pot. Stir, stir, stir. Double, double, toil and trouble.
She tried to remember the rest of the verse as a distraction, but her traitorous mind focused instead on the conversation Macey didn’t want to hear. The bitch.
“Yes, it is indeed Paris. Not so far from Notre Dame, where I shot that triptych from behind the gargoyle.”
Macey edged to the side, but she couldn’t force herself to walk away. She remained, torturing herself—no, testing herself. It was a test.
Hell. If she couldn’t get through this moment, how did she think she could face down Iscariot—in his own lair?
Grady’s feet came into view next to hers; she didn’t dare look over to see anything higher than his polished black shoes (no spats) and about knee height of the loose gabardine trousers that were in fashion. They were midnight blue, the color of his eyes when he was sleepy and relaxed. The back of her throat burned.
He was close enough that his arm moved alongside hers, a mere three inches away. Close enough that she smelled him—his unique essence of musky aftershave balm, hair pomade, and simply Grady.
She moistened her lips, aware that her heart was thudding about as hard as it did when she was faced with the likes of Nicholas Iscariot. She wondered crazily which one was more dangerous to her: Grady or Iscariot. Because at the moment, she didn’t know.
“Oh, excuse me, miss,” he said, when he bent forward to get a closer look at the photo and nudged her with his elbow.
“Not at all,” Macey replied.
He straightened up, and as he did so, he looked at her for the first time. His eyes widened with what was probably appreciation—for she did look great tonight, and Grady certainly appreciated a fine set of legs, among other female attributes. And there was a flash of something else there—something hard or irritated. But not recognition.
No, there was nothing in those blue eyes that indicated he had any idea they’d once known each other—and in the most intimate of ways.
Her heart broke then, with the finality of it all—in a way it hadn’t on the night she asked Wayren to use the special golden disk to wipe Macey from Grady’s memory.
It really had happened. It really was done.
Over.
“I don’t know how she did it,” Grady said, still speaking impersonally to Macey, but clearly referencing the woman standing next to him—who, Macey suddenly realized, must be S. Ellison. “But it had to have been an extremely delicate maneuver, getting into position like that.”
Now he glanced at the photographer, and Macey’s attention followed him. Her mind went utterly still, for though S. Ellison was more than a decade older than Macey herself, the photographer was the most stunning woman she’d ever seen. And they were standing very close together, very companionably. Grady was even holding her arm.
In her late thirties, perhaps even forty, the photographer was tall, with true black hair and an air of worldly sophistication. She possessed olive skin and exotic features, and she looked the way Macey had always imagined Cleopatra would. The woman even wore eye makeup, dark kohl lining her almond-shaped eyes with a short, subtle curl at the outside corners—similar to the images in the recently discovered tombs of Egypt.
However, she was dressed in a very modern column of shimmering black beads and sequins with blinding white evening gloves fastened along the wrist with onyx beads. A small, diamond-shaped fascinator of dazzling white trimmed with ethereal black feathers was anchored over the left side of her head, its lower point just above an arched brow.
S. Ellison laughed, her eyes flickering over Macey, and replied, “That shot was certainly a challenge. But the most difficult part of it all was keeping the people on the street below from gawking while I was framing the photograph. I didn’t want a crowd looking up or people stopped on the walk. I wanted a
She tried to remember the rest of the verse as a distraction, but her traitorous mind focused instead on the conversation Macey didn’t want to hear. The bitch.
“Yes, it is indeed Paris. Not so far from Notre Dame, where I shot that triptych from behind the gargoyle.”
Macey edged to the side, but she couldn’t force herself to walk away. She remained, torturing herself—no, testing herself. It was a test.
Hell. If she couldn’t get through this moment, how did she think she could face down Iscariot—in his own lair?
Grady’s feet came into view next to hers; she didn’t dare look over to see anything higher than his polished black shoes (no spats) and about knee height of the loose gabardine trousers that were in fashion. They were midnight blue, the color of his eyes when he was sleepy and relaxed. The back of her throat burned.
He was close enough that his arm moved alongside hers, a mere three inches away. Close enough that she smelled him—his unique essence of musky aftershave balm, hair pomade, and simply Grady.
She moistened her lips, aware that her heart was thudding about as hard as it did when she was faced with the likes of Nicholas Iscariot. She wondered crazily which one was more dangerous to her: Grady or Iscariot. Because at the moment, she didn’t know.
“Oh, excuse me, miss,” he said, when he bent forward to get a closer look at the photo and nudged her with his elbow.
“Not at all,” Macey replied.
He straightened up, and as he did so, he looked at her for the first time. His eyes widened with what was probably appreciation—for she did look great tonight, and Grady certainly appreciated a fine set of legs, among other female attributes. And there was a flash of something else there—something hard or irritated. But not recognition.
No, there was nothing in those blue eyes that indicated he had any idea they’d once known each other—and in the most intimate of ways.
Her heart broke then, with the finality of it all—in a way it hadn’t on the night she asked Wayren to use the special golden disk to wipe Macey from Grady’s memory.
It really had happened. It really was done.
Over.
“I don’t know how she did it,” Grady said, still speaking impersonally to Macey, but clearly referencing the woman standing next to him—who, Macey suddenly realized, must be S. Ellison. “But it had to have been an extremely delicate maneuver, getting into position like that.”
Now he glanced at the photographer, and Macey’s attention followed him. Her mind went utterly still, for though S. Ellison was more than a decade older than Macey herself, the photographer was the most stunning woman she’d ever seen. And they were standing very close together, very companionably. Grady was even holding her arm.
In her late thirties, perhaps even forty, the photographer was tall, with true black hair and an air of worldly sophistication. She possessed olive skin and exotic features, and she looked the way Macey had always imagined Cleopatra would. The woman even wore eye makeup, dark kohl lining her almond-shaped eyes with a short, subtle curl at the outside corners—similar to the images in the recently discovered tombs of Egypt.
However, she was dressed in a very modern column of shimmering black beads and sequins with blinding white evening gloves fastened along the wrist with onyx beads. A small, diamond-shaped fascinator of dazzling white trimmed with ethereal black feathers was anchored over the left side of her head, its lower point just above an arched brow.
S. Ellison laughed, her eyes flickering over Macey, and replied, “That shot was certainly a challenge. But the most difficult part of it all was keeping the people on the street below from gawking while I was framing the photograph. I didn’t want a crowd looking up or people stopped on the walk. I wanted a
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