Hathor gasped in shock and pulled away. This wanton attitude was not like her. She didn’t want to sleep with perfect strangers, no matter how handsome they were. The spell she felt cast about her suddenly broke. A cloud lifted from her brain, a haze melted off her limbs seeming to run onto the floor to puddle around her feet. Shaking her head, she was suddenly very frightened. Her voice cracked, "I --"
With a pull and a gasp, Ginger’s gaze hastened to the stage. Her eyes narrowed to glare in defiance. Her nostrils flared. Then, almost instantly, she lifted up her hands and bowed in remorse. Hathor thought she noticed the glint of extended fangs in the woman’s mouth. Ginger backed away from her. Hathor noticed an inner flash to the woman’s eyes -- pooling red with blood for an instant. The woman’s gaze filtered back to the stage and she smiled like a punished child. Yes, Ginger definitely had fangs.
The hairs on the nape of Hathor’s neck twitched in dread as she spun back around. Her heart began to pound faster in dismay. Her breathing deepened. The crowd had gone extremely quiet. Her blood rushed loudly in her ears as she turned to see all eyes on her--the intruder in their midst. Even the offerings stopped in their task to glare curiously at her. In a flash no longer than a blink she saw red trails of blood coming from the dancers’ fanged mouths, falling over their throats to disappear in the valley of their breasts. Their victim lay barely moving beneath them. In a daze, Hathor blinked heavily to see the blood was gone.
Servaes arrogantly stood on the stage. His eyes bore piercingly into her, the brown depths glowing eerily with an unfamiliar light. Suddenly, a green tint flashed over the captivating orbs. Hathor felt herself caught up in his stare. Her lungs forgot to breathe. It was as if he was inside of her, searching through her thoughts, listening to her heart. Somehow he didn’t seem angry at her presence, just confused as if he probed her for something he couldn’t find. Her body hummed as if on fire. She heard his voice in her head, whispering words she couldn’t understand, in a language she couldn’t know.
He opened his mouth as if to speak. All of a sudden he seemed aware of where he was. No words came from his curling lips. Hathor backed away slowly from the prying eyes, those with fangs caught up the red light from the stage in their hungry gazes.
"He has picked," someone whispered near Hathor’s shoulder.
Hathor shook her head slowly in denial. Her eyes stayed fixed on the Marquis. Her limbs quaked with dread. She couldn’t go on stage. What was she doing? She should have run from this place as soon as she walked in. Quickly, she backed into the shadows away from his notice. His eyes followed her, as if he could see her in the impossible darkness.
A spell trapped her limbs with a numbing force when Servaes looked at her, making it hard to move. A slight frown overcame his features at her rejection of his attention. Then a smirk lined his confident lips as he turned back to the crowd. He ignored her.
"Her crime…." he stated with a wave that encompassed the room, bringing the attention back to him. Instantly the penetrating eyes of the crowd were drawn away from her and Hathor felt as if she could once again breathe freely. She watched him point to the offering to be punished, as he continued, "…is that she denied her partner release after finding her own fulfillment."
"And her punishment?" a man with yellow underwear poking out of his unbuttoned blue jeans yelled. His hand grasped firmly to an exposed breast of his fanged lover. The vampire leaned over to lick his exposed throat as she grasped firmly on his erect penis.
"Her punishment will befit the crime," Servaes said, his thoughtful tone oddly impersonal. "She shall be brought near pleasure but denied several times until her body runs hot with moisture and her loins pulse with unfulfilled desire. And then we shall drink from her."
The gathered onlookers voiced their approval, half in moans and half in panted cheers. The punished woman wailed as an offering forced her legs further apart. The sounds she made were filled with wanton pleasure. Servaes went to stand over her. Hathor watched from the shadows, mesmerized. Reaching his hand down, the vampire hovered his cold fingers over the punished one’s exposed womanhood. The woman tried to grind her hips up into his palm. He backed the pale fingers away from her so it was just beyond her reach.
The bound woman let loose a tortured moan, as she was denied his touch. Then, withdrawing his hand into the folds of his masculine chest, he nodded at his women. Instantly, they were on the tied woman, licking and poking at her flesh with their fangs. Their searching fingers touched everywhere but her seeking center as they teased her trembling skin.
Hathor pulled back, terrified by the strong urge in her stomach. The club suddenly smelled of sex as the crowd tore at their clothing in a frenzy of excitement. Her tongue flicked across her teeth as if to find her own set of fangs there. Her teeth were flat, but she bit her tongue. Lightly, she touched her lips only to draw her fingers away dotted in her own blood.
Servaes had wanted her. Out of the fifty or so people in the crowd, he had picked her. Seeing Ginger watching her intently, Hathor backed towards the narrow passageway leading to the entrance. The woman’s eyes were transfixed on her bloodied finger.
The sound of Hathor’s feet echoed as she ran from the risqué couples beginning to fornicate before the stage. Pursued by the potent smell of sex and blood, her heart pounded and her head swam. She couldn’t make her wooden feet move fast enough.
The bricked alleyway was wet as she finally made it into the night. The moon shone full and bright in the sky, glittering on the moist pavement like millions of sparkling diamonds. Leaning against the cobblestone wall, Hathor took a deep breath. Her blood rushed in her veins, threatening her body with its silent song of temptation. Beautiful pale skin and handsome brown deep-set eyes haunted her. The image burned into her mind, warning her that she was forever changed.
Suddenly screams rang out from the hidden club--the sound of people brought to slaughter. The shrill cries jumped all around her, making her hair feel as if it stood on end. The noise shook her from her stupor. She pressed into the stone wall, too frightened to move.
"Go!"
Hathor heard Servaes’ command as if he shouted it in her ear. With a start, she jolted away from the building, spinning to look behind her. When she saw nothing she twirled, darting her gaze all around. She realized she was completely alone. The only noise was the beating inside her chest, uncommonly loud. Hesitantly, she leaned to peer down the passageway leading to the decadent club. Seeing a flash of pink hair, Hathor jerked back with a gasp. She mindlessly ran down the narrow alleyway, not knowing how she navigated the dark paths. She didn’t stop until she was safely home.
* * * *
Go!
Servaes opened his eyes, knowing the strange woman obeyed him. The heady smell of blood rose around him, gripping him with his hunger. Without appearing to move, his head whisked about, taking in all that happened around him.
Fellow vampires fed on their lovers, their hands still massaging and gripping naked parts of the prone bodies as they drained them neatly of their life’s fluid. The bartender turned, wiping his counter with a lulling precision. The pudgy man lifted a bottle to his lips and took a drink of what Servaes could smell from across the chamber as fine brandy. The man was a mortal, bound to them in service and long unaffected by the killings around him.
Looking down at the reddened eyes of the fanged performers, he watched as they turned to him with satisfied smiles. Respectfully they backed away on all fours, moving with a swift gliding force, their lips dripping crimson with warm blood -- only a taste from their aroused victim on the stone slab. Then, as quick as a single moment of time, they disappeared from the stage, going to stalk their main course in the dark, overcrowded streets of London.
"Mmm," the tied woman groaned in protest, unaware of all that happened around her. She moved her naked body restlessly against her bonds. Slowly, her eyes opened. With her came the scent of greedy longing and expensive perfume. Seeing Servaes above her, she smiled weakly, "Monsieur
le Marquis, my body is on fire for you. Take me. I am yours. Drink from me!"
Servaes knew he could easily wield his power over the simple woman. He could keep her suspended in a web of physical ecstasy, as he drank of the sweetened nectar of her impassioned blood, the sweet arousal like a drug to his kind. Just as he knew he never needed the iron bonds that held her in place. If he wanted her prone beneath him, he could have easily wielded it so with the power of his determination.
Gradually, a wicked smile formed on his mouth. His eyes flashed and filled with blood, blocking out his pupils and the coldness they contained. He refused to drink from her, suspending from the violent need.
Seeing his swarthy smile, the woman moaned louder. The others around them began collecting the lifeless bodies of their victims into their arms, carting them away. Some of the corpses would go into the dark waters of the Thames, others would find their way buried in old family crypts never opened, and still others would be left in the seediest parts of London -- mutilated.
As they left, Servaes heard their directed thoughts in his head. Well done, Marquis.
Why are you denying yourself, take her. Her blood is fevered.
Until tomorrow, my friend.
"Monsieur le Marquis, why are you waiting? End my torture." The woman lifted her hips to him. With an appealing pout jutting out her bottom lip, she begged, "Come inside me."
Servaes watched her pleading with indifference. Finally, he lifted his hand to instantly still her words. Without moving his lips, he said to her, I know what you did. I know every detail.
Her eyes rounded in horror. The passion began to drain from her, instantly replaced by a sensation of drowning. Her arms began to pull at her bonds, unable to get up as she imagined murky waters creeping up her skin. Through her frightened eyes she saw the liquid -- real and cold and wet.
Her mouth opened to scream in protest. The water flooded in, choking her shouts of terror. Her lungs struggled to breathe. Her lips parted desperately. Servaes watched. To him she was just struggling in empty air. Her body writhed and racked. He knew her lungs exploded and smoldered in pain. He knew her ears burned with the never-ending silence of water, marred only by the sound of his voice as he spoke to her. He knew that she drowned, feeling every painful moment drawn out in agonizing slowness. And he refused to let her out of her torment. He refused to let her die.
Slowly he walked up next to her, studying her calmly as her eyes sought his in terror. Their frightened brown orbs begged him for pity. Her throat gurgled desperately -- transcended in airless death that wouldn’t claim her with release.
Leaning next to her ear, he whispered darkly, "One hour, Madame. One hour for each of your five children you drowned last year in your car. The terror they felt for that moment tied to their seats -- helpless and scared -- you will feel tenfold. And before you die you will feel the bullet your maid used to take her own life after you accused her of the deed. How do you like your freedom now, Madame?"
The woman moaned and gurgled. Her throat constricted in cords of pain. Lightly, Servaes tapped her cheek with a long fingernail. The vampire smiled a charming and devilish smile -- so handsome that he could enchant any mortal to his will. But inside his heart thud in dull, even beats. He could feel nothing. Within him was the hollowness of death.
Enchant any mortal but her, he thought suddenly with a curious frown. His eyes moved to linger where the stranger had run from them. He could still see the flash of her innocent blue dress and her slightly tanned skin -- glowing like warm honey in the sunlight. And her eyes, though nothing compared to the captivating gaze of the undead, were sparklingly beautiful for a mortal.
Not that you remember the look of honey in the sunlight, he thought wryly.
With a grunt of bored disgust, he glanced at his victim, still tossing about in pain. He could read the condemned woman’s thoughts, but chose not to. He didn’t want to hear how she was sorry, how they were all sorry when their deeds were visited back onto them.
Standing, he knew he could deny his hunger no longer. The force of it gripped him, seizing him with need. If he put it off, he would go senseless -- attacking anything that neared him, no matter how dangerous the outcome could be for him and his kind.
Waving his hand, he made another surge of freezing water rush over the writhing woman. He turned his back on her, blocking out the sound of her voice in his head. With the speed of darkness, he began to move.
If you wanted the woman, you should have taken her. She shouldn’t have been allowed to live. She has seen us.
Servaes stopped. Without turning to Ginger, as she pouted in the opening to the passageway, he flew to her within a mortal blink. The woman doesn’t know what she has seen.
"How can you be sure?" Ginger asked coldly. "Besides, she is a mortal. And I want her."
Leaning to her ear, Servaes whispered, "Yours is not the right to question me. You asked for asylum here. You will obey my will. Otherwise, leave. Go back to the countryside and face those you have wronged."
"You are not our master," she whispered hotly. "We may put up with you because of your age, but we are not yours to command. The others might let you have what you want, but I will not. I am going after the woman."
"I am the oldest, the wisest amongst you. And you have no idea the lengths of my powers," he hissed. His eyes filled with a deadly chill to emphasize his words. Ginger recoiled slightly, her lips stiffening. "Now question me no more. I mark the woman as mine."
Ginger shot him a bitter look through black eyes, but said nothing. She flashed from him with a pant of anger radiating all around her, breaking the chilled air with its fervent heat. Servaes was unaffected. He didn’t watch her go as he left to trail the nights in search of his own meal of blood, wondering why he bothered to lay claim to a mortal at all.
Chapter Two
A light, careless smile molded itself to Hathor’s lips, as she walked over the cobbled pathways of the Kennington House gardens. The old house stood proud and tall against the lush foliage of fall beauty, its Gregorian architecture a tribute to the tranquil flair that was London in the eighteenth century. The multi-paned glass framed by Palladian styled windows, the squared paneled doors, and even the carriage porch, were maintained as a testament to lasting elegance.
Once, the home belonged to an affluent English family. A Duke of some such thing, Hathor remembered her aunt saying as she showed her to her room. Now, it was an affluent bed-and-breakfast run for wealthy tourists.
Full, luxuriant lawns and extraordinary vistas flowed evenly over the classical period grounds. There was a stone-lined avenue leading up to the house, hidden with trees and blocked by a wrought iron gate to keep outsiders from wandering too close. Sighing wistfully, Hathor thought it quite possible to see a horse-drawn carriage come up the drive, full of air-headed ladies in their expensive silk gowns and regal gentlemen carrying themselves with manners and polite compliments.
Continuing along, she crossed over a rustic bridge painted white. It overlooked a bountiful cascading brook captured in time by numerous bright flowers. Stopping, she leaned over the edge to study the water as it glistened orange in the evening light. Unable to help herself, she ignored her instincts to turn back before it got too late. She continued on the path.
Already she had briefly explored much of the splendor during the day. There was a conservatory within the Italian gardens, statues carved from marble, and fountains with stone benches circling around the tranquil waters pouring from urns held by frozen nymphs. The look of fall shone in the high leafy canopies overhead. The oak and sweet gum trees just beginning to turn in brilliant color, contrasted against the never-changing constancy of the evergreens.
Finding her way to a wooden bench near the tame waters of a fountain, she sat. The aromatic scent of flowers mingled with the stronger smell of the cool season. Staring absently, she didn’t see the nymph clutching her trailing gown frantically to her bosom, her stone eyes staring behind her as if someone were co
ming her way. Instead, Hathor found that her mind focused on the memory of stark eyes flashing seductively in their radiance. Next to the memory of that one gaze, the gardens paled.
She couldn’t explain how it was that one moment, one mistaken turn on her way to a small café, could affect her so. She had seen men before, handsome and beguiling. She had even dated a few. But never had she been shaken with so many feelings, as she was when she just thought of Servaes’ eyes. As to the club, try as she might, she could hardly remember a thing. It was like the fading cloud of a dream that she tried to grasp onto and savor, but in the end she couldn’t remember what it was she was savoring.
"I’m just smitten with anything unlike what I know," she muttered to herself by way of excuse. She didn’t believe it. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to force the picture from her mind. "And that place was definitely unlike anything I have ever seen."
Smiling absently she watched the last rays of orange sunlight hit the statue in silhouette. Almost instantly the garden lights went on, turning the fountain waters to purple and blue, lighting the pathways for any late wandering guests. Hathor knew that she was the only one wandering about. She was currently the only guest.
It had been three days since she saw the strange stage show. The next morning she had gone looking for it, unable to get lost in the same way again. Part of her hoped to run across the actor during the day hours, if only to convince her mind that he was nothing like he portrayed on stage, thus getting him out of her thoughts. She didn’t find him, and in her thoughts he constantly stayed.
Throwing her head back with a frustrated sigh, she eyed the pinpoints of stars. The evening air began to cool though it was still warm enough to walk about without a jacket. Stretching her legs before her, she inattentively smoothed her khaki slacks.
"I apologize, mademoiselle, I did not know there was someone else within the gardens."
That voice! Hathor stiffened, unable to believe it. Her heart began to thrash wildly in her chest. She had only heard him say a few words on stage, but the sound was as familiar to her as her own voice. She sat up straight, whirling in her seat to look at the dim path.
Redeemer of Shadows Page 2
