~ Reality in the Light of Day ~

Macey emerged into the bright light of day, leaving Alvisi's lair behind her. Chas was behind her, but she didn't want to talk. She stayed ahead of him.

The warm sun should have been a welcome sensation after such darkness, death, and destruction, but it only served to remind her of light, of normalcy, of happiness. Of life before.

Dejected, exhausted, and sick at heart, she trudged down the street in silence, weaving among and between other passersby who had no idea what evil lived beneath their streets. She'd found a coat to hide the bloodstains on her dress, but there were splatters of blood on her face and throat. No one seemed to notice.

Children gathered in parks, swinging, chasing each other, playing catch. Girlfriends linked arms and laughed at the soda fountain. Men jested on street corners while eating hot dogs. Motqll ly picturehers held the hands of dancing toddlers, pushed strollers, gave orders. Fathers carried children on their shoulders, managed dog leashes.

And so life went on. So utterly normal. And good.

Alvisi was dead. Flora lived. No, existed. Existed...owned and beholden to the devil. But lost to her. The look in her eyes told Macey there was no chance for redemption.

What was left of her friend was well and truly gone.

And Sebastian was still missing, but at least she knew who had him. Iscariot.

Macey glanced up as she crossed the street and saw the huge Chicago Tribune sign emblazoned on its building. Another stab of grief tore through her belly, superseding the aching wound in her shoulder, the scratches and cuts and bites on the rest of her. Those would heal much sooner, and much more easily, than the loss of Grady in her life.

J. Grady.

She'd probably never learn his real name-unless it was someday listed on a byline in the paper-or, knowing him, even the masthead. If she could, if she hadn't committed her life to her family legacy, she would keep walking...all the way to that Irish neighborhood where he lived, with his embedded silver crosses and dark, velvet eyes and soft, welcoming bed.

But she was a Venator.

Damned lonely life, being a Venator.

Macey glanced over her shoulder. Chas was still there. Their work was not yet done. It would never be done.

They had to find Sebastian. Somehow extricate him from Iscariot.

Just as she was about to turn and suggest hailing a cab, a long, black automobile pulled up along the curb. Macey's heart skipped a beat, but hell, she'd been through so much in the last few days. How could this be any worse?

Since it was broad daylight, and three suited men were getting out of the vehicle-plus her neck was toasty warm from the sun-she knew vampires were not the current threat. However, bullets and knives could be a problem.

"My boss has been waiting to meet with you," said one of the men. He gestured to the open door. The bulge of a firearm was clearly visible from beneath his suit.

"I appreciate the invite," Macey said, hardly slowing her pace, "but it's not a good time. I'm not in the best of moods."

But the man and his cohort blocked the way, and she was forced to stop. Other pedestrians crossed the street, unwilling to witness-much less be involved in-such a conflict.

"Move," Chas growled. One of the men stepped between him and Macey, producing a firearm, which he aimed boldly at Chas. Apparently, a handgun was going to have to be addqnd slyed to her vampire hunting tools.

"Get in da car," said the goon blocking her way. "I don't wanna have to make a scene." He shrugged sorrowfully as he showed her his gun. "But my finger's twitchy."

Macey glanced at Chas, but it appeared she had no other choice. And the invitation was clearly for her, and her alone.

"I hope you have something to drink in here," she muttered, climbing into the limousine.

To her surprise, the inside was empty. The doors closed and before she could wonder why the goons weren't joining her, one climbed in the front seat, and the driver took off.

"Who's your boss?" she asked, checking to make certain her stake was still tucked in her garter. Her silver cross was long gone. Not that either would be of much help against Nicholas Iscariot, if that was indeed where she was going.

Macey investigated the inside of the vehicle and found a small cooler with whiskey, glass tumblers, and-wonder of wonders-a large bottle of water. Half she used to clean up a little, and the other half she glugged down. Her wound from Chas's stake had stopped bleeding again. She hoped it would finally have a chance to heal.

By the time she'd dabbed at the rest of her injuries and eased her parched throat, the automobile pulled up to the backside of a tall, ornate brick building. The alley was narrow and deserted except for the man who waited at the door. He opened the vehicle to help her out.

No one spoke other than to direct her inside and then aboard an elevator. Macey had never ridden in one that went so fast, and she swore it left her belly on the ground.

Or perhaps it was nerves. For now she entered the den of a lion, alone and barely armed.

The lift stopped at the floor labeled "Penthouse," and that was when Macey realized it wasn't Nicholas Iscariot who'd summoned her.

Now she was really up a creek without a paddle. A stake wasn't going to do any damage to a mortal...

The twinge in her shoulder reminded her that wasn't precisely the case. If she hadn't been a Venator, Chas's stake would have killed her.

A set of double doors opened into the penthouse suite, which was beautifully and expensively appointed. Sofas and chairs were clustered at one side next to a set of French doors covered by filmy curtains. A large desk filled with papers, photos, and a container of writing implements stood to the right. There was a small grand piano with a cluster of silver candlesticks, a compact fireplace with a mantel displaying pictures and a vase of roses, and a hall that led, presumably, to bedrooms and a lavatory. Next to the door was a coat and umbrella rack with a mirror and half-moon table.

A stocky, sleek-haired man of thirty stood next to the French doors. He was dressed in a dapper white suit and neat spats. He had a red rose tucked into his buttonhole.

"Miss Denton. Welcome to my humble abode." He smiled as she entered.qnd sly

"Mr. Capone." Though her heart was lodged in her throat, Macey kept her voice cool and her gaze steady. "We meet again."

He smiled and beckoned jovially. "You're a difficult broad to get at, you know."

"Most broads don't appreciate being summoned into a vehicle at gunpoint."

"A guy's gotta do what a guy's gotta do," said Capone.

She stepped farther into the room, casting about for potential weapons, escape, and information. Two dark-suited men stood in the corner, watching silently. They were going to make things more difficult. "What do you want? I'm in a really bad mood and I don't have any desire to spend my time with you or your Tutela friends."

"Tutela?" He laughed heartily. "You aren't as well informed as I believed."

"I doubt that." In the back of her mind, Macey could hardly believe she was challenging and baiting Chicago's most dangerous criminal. Only a month ago, she would have been tryit the room. Sh