Read Online Roaring Dawn: Macey Book 3 (The Gardella Vampire Hunters 10) by Colleen Gleason - Free Book Online
Authors: Colleen Gleason
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off. Usually Capone took every opportunity to flaunt his wealth, clothing, or the weapon beneath his coat—not to mention the fact that he virtually controlled half the city—to anyone with whom he spoke. “I hope you kept them for me.”
“Yes, yes, of course, doll. You send for ’em any time you want. The clothes and stuff are all dere. Enjoy the exhibit,” he said, then slipped off into the crowd.
Macey watched him go, more than a little disconcerted at his abrupt departure. Yet whatever had gotten into him, she didn’t mind. At least it appeared she wouldn’t have to worry about Al Capone any longer.
As she wove through the displays, Macey barely glanced at the photos. Nevertheless, she noticed a close-up of a tiger among the grasses of a savannah, the portrait of a cobra, sitting up with its “wings” spread and vampire-like fangs bared so that one could actually see inside its gullet, and a particularly breathtaking shot that framed Westminster Abbey on a moonlit night, taken from what appeared to be the crow’s nest of a ship on the Thames. There were African villages, a stormy Mediterranean crashing against a ruined shipwreck, and a group of chubby, naked children playing in a mud puddle.
But there was one photograph that caught her notice—a picture she found herself stopping to give a full examination.
In contrast to the other dangerous and exciting images, the subject of this one bordered on the mundane. It was also tucked into a corner of the exhibit, as if it were an afterthought. Definitely not one meant to attract attention.
The frame was dominated by a man, sitting at a desk. He was looking down at a paper on which he was writing, one hand holding the stationery in place. Tension emanated from his body. The man had thick, dark hair, and strong but elegant hands with well-tended fingernails. Those were the only visible features, other than the hint of dark brows, nose, and mouth. He was wearing a shirt, sleeves rolled halfway up a muscular forearm, and a button was loose at the neck. He didn’t look like a simple clerk, or even a businessman. He looked powerful, despite an everyday pose with his face averted in something like submission.
Or determination.
Macey didn’t know what it was about the photograph that caught her attention, but something about it was utterly compelling. The man seemed strangely familiar to her, and the entire, simple scene was nevertheless fraught with emotion. It was a juxtaposition of power, determination, and regret—and it all came through, somehow, via the composition, the lighting, and the way his hands held the paper and pen. Perhaps he was writing a difficult letter.
She didn’t know why that crossed her mind, but when she saw the title of the photograph, printed on a card beneath, her brows lifted. A Letter Long Due . And the photographer was none other than S. Ellison again.
She looked closely at the paper, trying to discern the words scrawled on it. Of course, they were upside down and shadowy from the viewpoint of the camera, but the first line looked as if it read “Dear…” something with a capital M, and a descender at the end. Mary? Macey frowned, and her pulse gave a little jump when she looked closer. Huh. It could…geesh, it could just as easily be Macey as Mary. Which would be utterly unbelievable. Fanciful, really. She was reading too much into—
“I see you’ve found my favorite of the bunch.”
Macey nearly leaped out of her skin when the soft, accented voice spoke so close to her. For a Venator, she certainly was off her game tonight. She sure as hell hoped she wouldn’t be so jumpy if an undead showed up…
Macey turned to find Sabrina Ellison—sans Grady, thank you, God—looking at her with those exotic dark eyes.
“It’s… It looks very emotional. And yet it’s such a simple, everyday image,” Macey managed to say. “Nevertheless, I found it quite moving.”
“You appear to be the only one to have noticed him
“Yes, yes, of course, doll. You send for ’em any time you want. The clothes and stuff are all dere. Enjoy the exhibit,” he said, then slipped off into the crowd.
Macey watched him go, more than a little disconcerted at his abrupt departure. Yet whatever had gotten into him, she didn’t mind. At least it appeared she wouldn’t have to worry about Al Capone any longer.
As she wove through the displays, Macey barely glanced at the photos. Nevertheless, she noticed a close-up of a tiger among the grasses of a savannah, the portrait of a cobra, sitting up with its “wings” spread and vampire-like fangs bared so that one could actually see inside its gullet, and a particularly breathtaking shot that framed Westminster Abbey on a moonlit night, taken from what appeared to be the crow’s nest of a ship on the Thames. There were African villages, a stormy Mediterranean crashing against a ruined shipwreck, and a group of chubby, naked children playing in a mud puddle.
But there was one photograph that caught her notice—a picture she found herself stopping to give a full examination.
In contrast to the other dangerous and exciting images, the subject of this one bordered on the mundane. It was also tucked into a corner of the exhibit, as if it were an afterthought. Definitely not one meant to attract attention.
The frame was dominated by a man, sitting at a desk. He was looking down at a paper on which he was writing, one hand holding the stationery in place. Tension emanated from his body. The man had thick, dark hair, and strong but elegant hands with well-tended fingernails. Those were the only visible features, other than the hint of dark brows, nose, and mouth. He was wearing a shirt, sleeves rolled halfway up a muscular forearm, and a button was loose at the neck. He didn’t look like a simple clerk, or even a businessman. He looked powerful, despite an everyday pose with his face averted in something like submission.
Or determination.
Macey didn’t know what it was about the photograph that caught her attention, but something about it was utterly compelling. The man seemed strangely familiar to her, and the entire, simple scene was nevertheless fraught with emotion. It was a juxtaposition of power, determination, and regret—and it all came through, somehow, via the composition, the lighting, and the way his hands held the paper and pen. Perhaps he was writing a difficult letter.
She didn’t know why that crossed her mind, but when she saw the title of the photograph, printed on a card beneath, her brows lifted. A Letter Long Due . And the photographer was none other than S. Ellison again.
She looked closely at the paper, trying to discern the words scrawled on it. Of course, they were upside down and shadowy from the viewpoint of the camera, but the first line looked as if it read “Dear…” something with a capital M, and a descender at the end. Mary? Macey frowned, and her pulse gave a little jump when she looked closer. Huh. It could…geesh, it could just as easily be Macey as Mary. Which would be utterly unbelievable. Fanciful, really. She was reading too much into—
“I see you’ve found my favorite of the bunch.”
Macey nearly leaped out of her skin when the soft, accented voice spoke so close to her. For a Venator, she certainly was off her game tonight. She sure as hell hoped she wouldn’t be so jumpy if an undead showed up…
Macey turned to find Sabrina Ellison—sans Grady, thank you, God—looking at her with those exotic dark eyes.
“It’s… It looks very emotional. And yet it’s such a simple, everyday image,” Macey managed to say. “Nevertheless, I found it quite moving.”
“You appear to be the only one to have noticed him
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