Chicagoland by Gail Martin (important books to read TXT) 📕

Several areas had puddles, making me glad for the boots and suggesting another reason why this stretch of tunnel might no longer run trains. With a lake and a river close by, Chicago was known for wet basements and flooded first floors.

I halted, and the others nearly ran into me. “Look.” My angled beam showed footprints emerging from a darkened side tunnel, preserved in the skim of sediment on the floor.

“Not fresh,” West remarked, crouching for a better look. “But recent.”

There’d been a big rainstorm the night before we arrived. That probably left damp walls and wet floors in the tunnels. It also provided a rough idea of when our quarry had passed this way since the muck most likely remained soft for several days.

“If he escaped right about the time we got here, then he hasn’t gone far,” I replied.

“Why not leave? Go back to his people?” Sarah asked, her voice just above a whisper.

“We don’t know the toll Capone’s rituals took on him. He might not be sane,” I said. Just what we need—a vamp that’s crazy as well as rogue.

I peered into the darkness of the side tunnel. Either the wiring had failed, or someone intentionally put out the overhead lights. Much as I wanted to find our missing vampire, I wasn’t suicidal enough to go in there, even with Krukis’s magic. A moment’s concentration focused sharper-than-human senses. I picked up the stench of old blood and a smell that mixed flop sweat and spoiled meat.

“Let’s go,” I said sharply. I didn’t doubt that the vampire had its nest down that godsforsaken tunnel, but we needed to be gone before he picked up our scent as well. I suspected that Sarah and West came to the same conclusion, as we made our retreat as silently as possible.

Out of curiosity, we poked around a few more of the older tunnels, all of them well-lit even if largely abandoned. We saw plenty of rat tracks but no footprints, nothing to suggest anyone had come this way in a long time. I felt simultaneously relieved we hadn’t happened upon a pile of bones and annoyed we didn’t have more evidence to show for our wandering.

We came back up through the passage in the Lexington, and Sarah huffed as she kicked off her boots. “I’m thoroughly disappointed,” she said. “I was counting on finding one of those brothel tunnels.” The mischievous gleam in her told me she was only partially kidding.

I cleared my throat. “Well, while you ponder the possibilities, I’m going to go talk to a priest.” It seemed to me like this sort of thing was better done face-to-face. I couldn’t quite imagine how it would go on the phone. “I should be back before dinner.”

The walk to Holy Name Cathedral let me clear my head. Crisp fall air and the never-ending breeze off the lake felt like a slap of astringent on my face. It stung my eyes and made my nose run, but I felt alive. I tried to hang onto the little things that reminded me of being mortal: the taste of food, the smell of flowers, and the feel of sun and wind on my skin. I needed to remember so that I didn’t end up adrift.

Capone had ordered a hit on a member of the North Street Gang in front of the cathedral several years ago, before he gave up and just wiped out the entire group earlier this year. Four bullet holes from a machine gun pockmarked a corner of the church. Not long before Ness’s Feds swooped down on Capone, the senior priest had met with a messy end as well. I wondered what Father Kinsella might have to say about that and whether he’d be willing to help.

I’d given up on the Christian god the night I buried my wife and son, long ago. My soul was sworn to Krukis. Yet I respected that most churches, even the cathedrals, kept their doors open at all hours as a waystation for those who needed a shelter from the storm. And despite my beef with a god who hadn’t answered my desperate pleas, the beauty of the architecture, the glow of stained glass, and the glimmer of candles still spoke to my battered soul. The air smelled faintly of smoke and incense, and my footsteps echoed between the stone floor and the soaring arched vaults over my head. I found that I’d genuflected and crossed myself out of habit without even realizing it.

I hoped Krukis wasn’t paying attention.

In my phone call, I’d mentioned Sorren’s name and that I had an urgent need to speak with him. Father Kinsella had told me to come straight away and said he’d be in the sanctuary preparing for tomorrow’s Mass.

Too many memories rose to choke me as I made my way toward the chancel. This cathedral was far fancier than St. Michels in Homewood, the little parish where I’d worshipped with Agata and Patryk long ago. Candle smoke reminded me of their funeral Mass, of the way it burned in my eyes, already red from sobbing. I recalled the rumbling voice of the priest who tried to comfort me with promises of a Heaven that I didn’t think either of us really believed.

For the first time in a very long while, I was back in that awful moment, cold with shock, numb with grief, barely able to draw breath, heart aching with every beat.

There was a reason I avoided churches.

“Can I be of help?” A warm hand lightly gripped my shoulder. I looked down at a slightly built, shorter man with thinning red hair who wore a black shirt and priest collar. He seemed honest in his compassion.

“I’m looking for Father Kinsella.”

“You’ve found him.”

My surprise must have shown on my face. I wondered if the man could possibly be old enough to have finished seminary, and I wondered why Sorren had sent me to this…child.

“I’m older than I look,” Kinsella said, fortunately finding humor in my momentary