Redeemer of Shadows

by Michelle M. Pillow

  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 the violent need.

  Seeing his shadowy 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 fighting 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. 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 those moments while 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 felt 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 I remember the look of honey in the sunlight, he thought wryly.

  With a grunt of 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.” 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 the scent 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 night in search of his meal of blood, wondering why he bothered to lay claim to a mortal at all.

  Chapter Three

  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 Georgian architecture was a tribute to the tranquil flair that was London in the eighteenth century. The multi-paned glass framed by Palladian-style windows, the squared paneled doors, and even the carriage porch was 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 had shown her to her room. Now, it was a prosperous bed-and-breakfast run for wealthy tourists.

  Full, luxuriant lawns and extraordinary vistas flowed evenly over the finely manicured 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 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 became 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 coming 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 relishing.

  “I’m just smitten with anything different than my reality,” 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. The garden lights turned on, changing 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, as her aunt had shut down the house for routine maintenance.

  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 daylight 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.

  Hathor half expected to find a ghost derived of her wild imagination. But there, outlined by soft walking lights and hidden partly by the shadows of night, stood Servaes. Unable to move, she stared at his tall, unyielding figure. She didn’t hear him approach, strange since he walked on loosened cobblestone. She felt the pulse in her neck racing out of control. She wanted to faint.

  Forcing herself to breathe, she stood, careful to keep her gaze on him. Slowly, he stepped forward, seemingly in no hurry for her to speak. He lightly lifted his hand, letting it fall to the side in a subtle gesture. His eyes searched her, probing.

  “These are private grounds, sir.” Hathor was proud of herself for not letting her voice waver. The man cocked his head, as confusion seemed to pass on his pale face. She swallowed bravely. He took another step. The light fell across his wan features. He continued to study her. Again he lifted his hand, letting it pass a bit higher before going to his side to rest. Stammering, she inquired, “Are you lost?”

  Hathor kept a careful gaze on him. His carved lips didn’t move, though she had the faint impression that he was giving her a quizzical smile. He watched her, his eyes shining with intensity from their darkened, brown depths. For a brief instant, she thought they sparkled with green.

  “I can’t read your thoughts, sir,” Hathor said when he didn’t answer. She tried to look calm, but the pounding thuds in her chest didn’t allow her to. Her lips trembled slightly when his eyes went to them.

  “How very droll,” he murmured in a low, French accent. There was humor in the tone, though she didn’t get the joke. Taking his time, he slowly moved his head to the side as if he could better study her from that angle. “I was thinking the same about you.”

  Servaes studied the woman before him as she smiled. Her laughter rang out like soft music. The sound took him by surprise. It wasn’t often he was looked at with such kindness, without bringing it forth with his powers. The woman before him intrigued him. He had followed the smell of her that first night, easily finding her house after his feeding. And each night he came, drawn by curiosity and something else he couldn’t explain. Tonight, he had yet to feed, but it was still early, and the hunger wasn’t too bad.

  Coming from his coffin bed below the city streets, he had known she was outside. Within a flash, he found her by the fountain. At first, he meant only to watch and leave. But then he saw her soft features outlined by moonlight, the smooth curve of her mortal cheek as she watched the stars, the full pout of her lips—lips he ached to feel along his cold ones until she warmed him with her blood—and the gently unabashed glittering of her soulful eyes. He found himself drawn forward. There was sadness within her, an ache he could feel as if it were his own.

  He felt everything within her, as if she were inside him. But as to her thoughts, he couldn’t read a single one. And that is what intrigued him. It shouldn’t have been possible. In hundreds of years, it had never been possible. He felt his bloodlust deepen. Hunger edged his body. He forced himself to control it for didn’t want to scare her. “Would you like to share the jest, ma petite?”

  Hathor kept her smile as her laughter subsided. He didn’t come closer, but she felt as if he was right next to her, a hairsbreadth from touching her skin. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to laugh at you. It’s just, you can tell you’re an actor.”

  He arched a brow.

  Hathor waved her hand absently at his attire. “I mean, well, your clothes obviously.” Again, he wore black breeches, tight and firm against his legs, outlining them with muscular perfection. His shirt was of white linen, soft, as the gentle night breeze blew it along his strong chest. “What is it—eighteen, nineteen hundreds?”

  “A little of both.”

  “I can’t say it was just your attire. I do have a bit of an unfair advantage. I saw you perform a few nights ago.” Suddenly, she blushed and turned her gaze to the ground. She felt like a chattering fool, but couldn’t force herself to be quiet. “Quite by accident, mind you. I’m new to the city and got a bit lost on my way to some obscure café that I still can’t find. Anyway, you’re good. You really know how to work an audience.”

  For all that it was a compliment, he didn’t seem to pay it much mind.

  Surely, Hathor thought at his continued silence, you hear praise like this all the time. What does my opinion matter? You must think I am such a fan girl.

  “So, are you working tonight?” Motioning nervously at him, she endeavored to sound confident. “I see you are dressed for it. Or did you just finish?”

  “I have yet to go,” he said at last.

  “Oh,” Hathor said at his curt tone. She bit at her lip, took a step back, and then another. “Well, enjoy the gardens. Just don’t tell my aunt I let you walk around. She has this thing about the public coming in here. I guess she thinks they will destroy it. It’s happened before with teenagers jumping the gates and having a party. Well, it was good to meet you.”

  Hathor turned, feeling like an idiot. She rolled her eyes heavenward for her foolish—Georgia would call it prattling—and silently berated herself for sounding like a dimwit. It was just that he was so handsome. He took her thoughts away and made her legs feel as strong as a piece of wet satin.

  “Mademoiselle, nous n’avons pas rencontré.”

  Hathor jolted in surprise, feeling his breath next to her ear and the light tracing of teeth and lips on her neck. Turning, she looked around in question. He hadn’t moved from his spot.

  “I’m sorry, did you say something?” Feeling her neck, she rubbed it gingerly. Was she losing her mind?

  “I said, we have not met.” He took a languid step forward, repeating his words so she could understand them. His eyes never left her face. Hathor didn’t move. “What is your name, ma chéri?”

  “Oh, you spoke French. I thought that maybe you were faking the accent.”

  “Oui, mademoiselle. I speak many languages,” he said with a small, proper bow. His lips parted.

  “Forgive me. My name is Hathor Vinceti. My aunt owns this house. I’m staying with her this winter to help out.”

  “Hathor,” he repeated, mulling the word on his tongue like a fine wine.


  She nodded and held quiet.

  “So unusual to hear that name these days. She is an Egyptian goddess, no?” Servaes took a step toward her, drawing to stand next to the bench she so recently abandoned. Hathor listened, breathless, as he added, “The celestial goddess of love, who has the body of a beautiful woman and the head of a cow.”

  “Yeah, that’s me all right. I have often thought I look like a cow. But you forgot the headdress with the sun disk on it and, well no, that’s about it.” She smiled. “Tell me, how did you know that? No one ever knows that. Most people think my parents were drunk when they applied for my birth certificate and misspelled Heather.”

  At that he shrugged. “Some say my second ancestors were Egyptian, others think from India.”

  “Second?” she questioned in confusion. “Oh, do you mean on one of your parent’s sides? Like your mother’s people?”

  Servaes chuckled quietly to himself. “I can barely remember my parents. To think of them now is nearly impossible. I studied ancient myths for a time.”

  “Are you also a teacher then?” she inquired. “When you’re between acting jobs?”

  This time his laughter was louder. The sound was low and seductive, not at all mocking. “No, teachers are too giving of themselves. I take too much from people to be a teacher. When I was younger, I obsessed about the ancients.”

  “How old are you?” she questioned without thought. Then, clearing her throat, she said, “Never mind, that was rude of me. It’s none of my business.”

  “Come sit awhile before I must leave.” His words were almost like a command, cool and smooth, as he gestured to the wooden bench. It was clear that he was not a man who often met with refusal or resistance.

  Hathor stood before him, watching his eyes carefully at the close distance. They were more beautiful than she had first imagined. It wasn’t right for one man to possess so many disarming qualities. No doubt he had a lot of girlfriends. Men like him always did. Remembering what he was, she stiffened. The guarded stance couldn’t last. As soon as he spoke, all reservation again left her.