He irately adjusted his slender jacket. Strangely, he too was a little nervous. The emotion took him so by surprise that at first he didn’t recognize it.
"I can’t do this. I look like a fool," he detected her to say under her breath. Seeing her turn, he quickly darted from the shadows.
Hathor’s eyes rounded in surprise to see him lounging easily against the ledge of the bridge, as if he had been there all night -- just watching her. Her cheeks flushed profusely, turning a darkened pink. She stood speechless and met his hardened gaze with a bravery her fluttering heart didn’t feel. He looked angry, or in the very least, irritated.
His pale skin belonged to the blue moonlight, encasing the depth of his unfeeling gaze. Her limbs shook and tried to move, but she was held in place by a will outside herself. She couldn’t speak. A deep fear welled within her. For a moment, the dancing shadows tricked her senses, and she thought to see his face shift and change in horrific measures. But, when she blinked in a growing thread of terror, the image disappeared and a slight smile was tugging the corner of his mouth.
With easy grace, he whipped the black top hat from his long brown hair. Taking it in his fingers he gave her a gracious bow, bending low at the waist. His eyes stayed boldly with her as he dipped. Then, after standing just as evenly, his fingers moved over his overcoat. He deftly unfastened two buttons so that the sides fell open to reveal a stark white, double-breasted waistcoat.
Servaes paused in his movements to give her a slow smile. Leisurely, his hand glided to rest on the hips of his fitted black slacks. Hathor watched him, not seeing the overly long fingernails as they lay as unmoving as a gravestone. He was completely confident in the handsome figure he presented.
Hathor felt her heart pound ferociously. He was confident before her now, like he had been on stage, like she remembered him in the garden. The memory brought little delight as she thought of the naked women he touched and the fornicating crowd he commanded.
Suddenly, she realized she was more jealous than repulsed. She was intrigued by who he was, the life he lived. She was curiously drawn as to why he sought her out of so many willing partners. Her chest heaved, begging for air through the restraints of the tight corset. She could feel the night breeze on her skin, cooling the flush on her cheeks. Swallowing nervously, she couldn’t look away. Then, with a blush that crept prettily to stain her features, she watched his eyes appraise her in a slow, seductive tilt of his lashes.
"You look beautiful," he said easily, in response to her whispered declaration. Hathor didn’t know how he managed it, but within a blink he was in front of her -- whisking forward on plain leather ankle-boots, which didn’t creak on the bridge as her feet had. His eyes dropped to her panted breath, his tongue darting over the edge of his mouth. He knew she watched his lips, and so he parted them in invitation, careful to keep his fangs from view.
Hathor’s mouth worked, trying to find the words to answer him. But his eyes kept her from responding. His nearness overwhelmed her, casting a spell over her senses. Inside a small voice told her to run, warned her of danger and death in his embrace. She couldn’t hear the warning over the sound of her thudding heart. Already the treacherous organ had given itself over to pure emotion.
Hathor couldn’t think with him so close. His dark stare entranced her into its depths. His pale skin wasn’t as white as before, but filled with the tinting of life. She could see the color shifting within his probing gaze -- from brown to green and then back again. Unable to explain it, she ascribed the supernatural vision before her eyes to the playful trickery of the moon.
Servaes intently watched her, not seeming to notice the time it took her to speak. Hathor stepped back, feeling his potent intimacy all too well. She broke her mind from the spell of him, shaking herself into answering. His eyes saddened in question, covering with what looked like a vulnerable light. Just as quickly, the look was gone.
"Thank you," she answered at last in a hush. The words were strange after so long a silence.
Servaes held back from her. He wanted to kiss her, was drawn to do so. But, if anything, the centuries had taught him a bit of patience. What rush was there for a creature that had forever? He could see her hesitancy. Although it confounded him, he accepted it.
"Are you running late?" she asked when he didn’t speak. She watched him from behind her lowered lashes.
"Oui," he lied, not wanting to tell her he had watched her. "I apologize, it could not be helped."
"I guess I could say that I was already out at the conservatory, but the truth is I wasn’t going to go." Hathor smiled at him weakly, surprising him with her candid confession. Most humans were not so honest.
"Why?" he inquired, enthralled. He once again closed the distance between them. Placing the top hat back on his head, he nodded to the domed building. Not offering her his arm, he placed his hands behind his back, clasping them together as he fell into step next to her. "Do you not like the gown?"
"Oh, well no, it’s not that. It’s -- I don’t know. I don’t really know you." Pursing her lips together thoughtfully, she then said, "And I wasn’t sure about all this. I thought it might be a joke."
"How a joke? I thought mademoiselle wished to live in the past. Are you not pleased to be doing so?" He stopped, turning intently to her. Everything about him bespoke of culture and refinement. Again his eyes flashed brightly, glowing in the night air. Leaning forward, he whispered bluntly, "Or is it my company you find distasteful?"
"No, not at all. I am overwhelmed with you … your gift, obviously." She tilted her head to the side. His voice sent chills through her, electric jolts of excitement and power. "Do you do this sort of thing often?"
"No," Servaes answered. She could see in his eyes that it was the truth. The gaze pleaded for her complete trust, actually it demanded for it. "I have never done this. I have never found anyone I was interested enough in to bother."
"Oh," Hathor gushed. With a natural frankness, she admitted, "I just don’t understand why you’re here with me. I saw the women in your club. They are very beautiful and exotic. And surely they --"
"Yes, they do possess an outer beauty, do they not?" he allowed. He refused to feel the void within the young vampiress’, as he thought of his fellow vampires that occupied the Club. They all revolted him with their ignorance. They didn’t understand the beauty that could be found in the world. All they knew was their greedy passion for destroying and controlling life. They were Gods amongst men with no compassion or respect for which they reigned over.
Hathor was taken aback. Weakly she nodded in agreement. Servaes turned and again began walking towards the conservatory. Reaching it, he allowed her to walk under the old glass dome overgrown with vines. Her feet tapped lightly on the marble floor as she passed through two of the Romanesque columns.
The conservatory was a circular structure made of stone. The domed ceiling was lined with iron designs within the glass pieces. The wind whistled as it passed through a broken pane. Hathor shivered, all too aware of her companion.
"Why have you brought me here?" Hathor wondered aloud. She was not receiving any of the answers she sought. Though, she was not sure what she wanted to hear from him.
"Shhh," he coaxed, lifting a finger to her mouth. Hathor expected his touch to be cold like the night before, but it was warm. Her lips parted, panting against his finger. He gave her a tender smile.
When she didn’t back away, he let his fingers brush softly over her cheek. He reveled in the slow pace of his hands along her skin, the uncertain light in her blue eyes when she looked so openly at him. It was strange to be slowly seducing someone without power over their actions or the knowledge of their mind. Over the years he could have taken many lovers, but the feeling in the act was lost when there was no expectation or surprises. A hunter would always grow weary of the prey that lays before him, unwilling to give chase.
"Your hand is warm," she whispered, closing her eyes to lightly nuzzle him. His fingers ventured low
er, dipping over her neck.
"I just ate," he returned without thought.
"And what did you have, monsieur?" she questioned, paying more heed to his caressing hand than to her own words. His nearness, the strange exotic smell of him left her spellbound in a cloud of confused emotion. When she was with him, nothing was as it seemed. Shadows danced in wicked taunting. Moonlight stretched and played and almost came alive.
Servaes’ fingers traced over the bend of her lip, along her effortlessly arched eyebrows, down the slope of her small nose. She was so fragile, so mortal, so alive. It was the reason he was drawn to her.
"Franklin," he stated bluntly, drawing his hand away. The single word served as a reminder of the true monster he was. Her eyes shot open to look at him in a mix of horror and amusement. It was a mockery to his being there. He felt his beating heart squeeze, not wanting to think about the curse that was his existence. In front of one as pure as Hathor, his immortal life became all the more damned. He was a killer. No matter how he dressed it up, that is what he was. The blood on his fangs attested to it.
"Franklin?" she asked. Then, suddenly she smiled, "Oh right, for a moment I forgot that you mean to be a vampire. I suppose I should admire a man so dedicated to his craft. So who is Franklin?"
"A very bad man," he obliged. When she didn’t holler in fear and try to run, he once more lifted his hand to her smooth cheek. Touching her for a fleeting moment, his gaze dipped down her throat held by sapphire gemstones. Then, sliding his fingers over the bare neck to her shoulder, he took up her arm. He pulled her to a bench with him. Sitting with graceful elegance, he took her hand and urged her to join him.
"So you killed someone tonight?" she asked lightly as she took her seat. Her tone was such that she could have been asking about the weather.
"I kill someone almost every night," he returned, hating the turn of the conversation and loath to speak of anything else.
Her eyes darkened and looked away. His gaze trailed down the gentle curve of her nose to her full lips. Parting his mouth, wanting to kiss her, he felt the brush of fangs along his bottom lip and quickly hid them.
"You do not believe me, do you?" he said at last. When she looked at him doubtfully, he smiled. He was glad she didn’t believe him. He liked having her think of him as only a man. "Care to dance?"
"With you?"
"Yes, with me." As he said the words, she heard a soft old music start around them. She looked up in surprise.
"Where --?"
"A modern disc player," he stated in a low murmur by way of explaining. The strained tunes of an orchestrated waltz began. The sound, however, didn’t sound modern. It was grated and fuzzy, as if from an old phonograph. Servaes placed his hat on the bench as he stood. Smoothly, he bowed before her with genteel elegance. Then, holding his hand out to her, he flashed a devilishly slanting grin, "Mademoiselle, would you do me the honor?"
"Oh." Unable to deny his gentle persuasion, she slipped her fingers into his. His touch sent a thrill over her, like a shockwave through her tingling skin. Her lips ached to kiss him. Her body longed to press to his. But she was too scared to let it. So instead, she held back, waiting for him to move first.
"Like this," he instructed automatically knowing she didn’t know the steps. One hand moved down along her arm until it rested at her waist, the other took up her palm into his. His fingers wrapped firmly around hers. As he held her, there was space still left between their bodies. Hathor shivered. Whispering in a husky murmur, he said into her ear, "One two three, one two three, very good."
Hathor threw back her head and laughed as he led her about in the steps. He danced with such precise skill that she followed him easily. Servaes smiled, moving faster to keep time to the music.
As the music slowly faded, Hathor dropped her arm and stepped back from him. Her flushed cheeks shimmered in peachy translucence. His eyebrow shot up in surprise as she tried to leave him. Slowly, he shook his head. His eyes flashed as they bore into her, enchanting her with their brilliance. And she unwittingly let him have the power over her to do so.
Suddenly, the night became a peculiar place. Shadows twisted and moved around them, until her head spun. Hathor knew that Servaes had no intent of letting her free. Taking her back into his arms, he said, "The ball is not over, ma petite. Not until we have danced all night."
Almost instantly another dance began. Its tone was different from the waltz they had just completed, though its music was still scratched. As they danced under the moonlight, held captive by the web woven around them, the songs faded and blended into each other -- a gallopade, a schottische, another waltz.
Servaes whirled her in a circular motion about the conservatory floor, her gown sweeping over the litter of fallen leaves. At times Hathor could almost see the twirling of other couples moving around them. She could hear the laughter and gaiety of the past echoing faintly in her head--a memory that was not her own. Hours passed like seconds dancing under the stars, with Servaes whispering softly into her ear, teaching her the steps and names of a new dance. When she followed his instructions with ease, he would murmur a compliment of her skill. And, slowly, his arms closed the distance between them until she could feel the beat of his heart against her constrained chest.
His strength was tireless. When she thought her legs would surely take no more, he pulled her closer, seeming to carry her with his strength, transferring it onto her until she floated above the floor. Hathor’s breasts pressed into his muscular chest. She could feel the night air on her cleavage, could feel the firm lines of him against the tender flesh.
"You’re a wonderful dancer," she sighed. Hathor smiled up at him, her eyes dipping to his lips. Her mind became drunk on his closeness. She let her fingers trail up his arm to rest on the side of his cooling face. The warmth of her skin contrasted his pallor, but she didn’t see it. Slowly, her eyes shut. Her head tilted back to offer her lips.
Servaes felt her heart beating to match his, knowing that if he wanted he could take her completely. He didn’t, couldn’t deny her the one kiss. He lowered his lips to her breathless mouth. Lightly, he rubbed against their willing caress. His hands moved to surround her waist safely in his arms. His fingers caressed up her back, tangling in her hair, loosening it from the clips. The clips clattered on the stone beneath.
He parted his mouth tenderly against hers, running his tongue over the sweet taste of her lips. When she gasped, his tongue slipped inside the velvet parting of her mouth’s entrance. She moaned in pleasure, gripping onto his fine black jacket for support. The material crumpled under her shaking fingers. Passion shot through her at the taste of him. Her body quivered. A soft moan escaped her. He lifted them higher off the ground, higher than they already were. In his dark and greedy pleasure, he brought them up into the conservatory dome, surrounded by the serenity of stars.
Servaes took in her breath, feeling it inside his lungs, seeming to breathe her life into his undead body. When she moaned again, gentle and light, he took that in too, for once forgetting himself as his mouth became more insistent. With her, he felt like a man. He forgot everything but the feel of her. He forgot who he was. She quickened him as nothing had.
Hathor’s shoe fell from her foot, crashing loudly below them on the ground. She didn’t hear it. Servaes’ lips deepened his kiss, his teeth drawing over her bottom lip. The torturous tide of his passion became unbearable. With its master off guard, the creature within awoke--hungry and fierce.
Hathor’s breasts pushed up from the gown, begging to be free of the tight folds. Her body shook with passion. The feeling streamed with intensity through her whole being. Servaes’ hands stroked down over her back, curving around the thick pads of the gown to press beneath her tender backside.
With easy strength, he lifted her leg, pulling her knee to his waist. Her body opened up to him, allowing him to sink inside the cushioned depths of her heating center. His body pressed into her so that she could feel every curve of his chest. His hips
ground passionately, begging to be released from the prison of his breeches. Their shared heat seemed to melt the clothing from their bodies until it was as if nothing parted them.
Servaes’ hand on her leg grew bolder when she didn’t protest it. It inched sensually up the slickness of the hosiery, beyond the garter adjoined to her corset, to rest along her hip. Hathor couldn’t think to stop him. Her mind was caught up in the pleasure of his kiss. She couldn’t focus beyond the basic needs of her body. She was not equipped to resist him. She didn’t see the red need filling into his eyes.
Servaes’ kiss became more persistent, capturing her unsteady breath until he smothered the air from her lungs. His fangs bit into her mouth, naturally seeking to draw a taste of her blood as it swirled in heady aroma around his senses, as she began to struggle for air. Her blood was overwhelmed with passion and would taste so sweet.
Hathor gasped sharply at the unsuspected pain of her burning lungs and stinging mouth. She took back whatever control she relinquished to him, though it hadn’t been much. Her eyes shot open in dizzying surprise, seeing the stars disappearing from around her head in a flash of streaking lights.
After blinking, she felt herself back on the floor. Her gown once more fell about her legs. Her lungs panted wildly for air, feeling as if she couldn’t breathe. Fear gripped her, urging her to flee. But her blood roared beyond control, weakening her heavy limbs. She couldn’t move, didn’t dare run. Servaes still held her close.
At the same time she was filled with a peculiar strength that made her want to leap through the air and finish what her body jolted. Her loins pulsed, hating her for denying them. Shaking her head in confusion, Hathor stumbled out of her companion’s magnetic embrace, unsteady by the lack of one shoe.
Servaes’ body hummed with life. The one taste of her sweetness stirred his hunger to a ravenous need. He turned from her, lest she see the damning evidence of his longing in his eyes, lest she see the abhorrent struggle as he fought for control. He could feel his emotions turning, urging him to take her. He fought the painful insistence growing inside of him, though the taste of her blood drop was more pleasing to his senses than any others before it had been. It was like the intoxicating potency of the finest of wines to humans.
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