Redeemer of Shadows

by Michelle M. Pillow

  Chapter Nine

  Vampiric eyes swam with the red of their victims’ blood, as if silently attesting to the divinity of their owners. The terrified screams of their victims, who had been impaled upon a thick wooden shaft, the dull stick forced up an orifice that couldn’t cry out in pain, were evermore silenced. The last quivers of their soft forms unable to continue on, as their bodies found the blessed release of a hard death.

  “You pierced an organ,” Lamar spat in disgust.

  The last mortal victim had just stopped writhing in anguish. Her lifeless carcass hung like a puppet on a pole. The stick rose out from her throat, keeping her head thrown back as her listless green eyes were forced to the low stone ceiling of the underground sewers. The moldy, dank bricks were the last things she saw in the dramatic end to her relatively easy God-fearing life. Her honeyed complexion began to match that of her tormentors, contrastingly pale with the red dress she still wore. Around the impaled woman, cooling corpses floated in the rancid water of the underground sewer, stuck limply in their horrific poses.

  Lamar turned his sharp gaze away from the motionless woman’s body to glare at Ginger. The beauty of the vampire’s face was marred only by the evil look of his countenance. Quietly, he menacingly added, “Again.”

  All undead gazes turned thoughtfully to the last mortal to die. Just as humans wouldn’t think twice about killing a rat running across the kitchen floor, the vampires of London knew they were above the mortal race they fed so gluttonously on. The world was their vampire’s kitchen, and the mortals who occupied it deserved to be slaughtered for their masters’ pleasures.

  “Yes,” came the voice of an onlooker hidden in the shadows.

  “She died too fast,” yet another called.

  “That is not how the Vlad legend says it happened,” still another added.

  Their collective vampiric bodies didn’t move in compassion or pity for the dead, but in frustration that they couldn’t have made the pain last longer.

  “You try it, if you think you can do better,” the vampiress growled in return, walking thoughtfully around the woman. With a swift kick that caused no real effort, she struck the body in the stomach, knocking the pole over. The woman fell into the tepid sewer water with a splash. Ginger gave a toss of her pink hair. “It is not as easy as it looks to get the stick in just right.”

  “Fine,” Lamar stated. His features were covered with shadows and his lips barely moved as he spoke. Turning his attention into the darkness of the stone chamber, he commanded, “Go grab another, Vincent.”

  “I grow uninterested in this,” Vincent grumbled, but he left to do as he was told. “Will you two never tire of competing?”

  Ginger chuckled, the dark laugh indicating she doubted she ever would. Lamar leaned over to grab the woman’s slack jaw from the water. Forcing her off the pole with a hard yank, he pulled her into his arms. His nose detected the scent of refuse on her skin, but he didn’t mind it. The vampires didn’t need to breathe and were not bothered by the smell. Looking down into her matted hair as her head hung limp on her neck, he whispered lovingly, “I think we should have pushed you more to the right, my love. Then we could have missed your heart.”

  Ginger snorted in disgust. Leaning against the wall, she watched as Lamar began waltzing his companion to a soundless tune. His body levitated them into the air as they twirled. The corpse’s head flopped as he dipped her low over his arm.

  The young ones derived immense satisfaction from their lurid hunting games. They were babes, given the eternal gift of immortality, strength and power, and nearly unlimited access to an ignorant world that denied their existence as myth and romantic legend. And, like babes, they suckled the breast of humanity with an untamed hunger and wastefully played with their food as they wished. With no one to stop them and no way to end the long stretch of never-ending boredom that threatened, they endeavored to outdo the march of time by proving they were deserving to be gods.

  Only one fear lingered in the back of their undead minds as they roamed. It was an age-old fear that every child must endure—the silent apprehension of angering a parent if caught. But their vampire parents had grown disinterested in them, and the nonexistence of a governing hand only succeeded in growing a myth that there was no ultimate parent of them all. It came to be believed that the council they were made to obey since their rebirth was a tribal myth told to keep them in line. For whom should a god have to listen to anyway?

  With tentative boldness, the London vampires tested their bounds. They started the Vampire Club to stir the desires of their victims in order to sweeten the taste of the blood. Then, they merely disposed of their corpses in an increasingly sloppy manner—dumping the bodies into the Thames without thought of hiding their bites. Most bodies decomposed quickly in the murky water, and no connection was ever made to them. Nearly all were content with that small rebellion.

  But some wanted more, growing mad with power when there was no backlash from the mythical tribal council. They continued with their games—torturing and killing at will, playing cruelly with their prey.

  “Vincent is right,” Ginger said in dejection. She parted her lips and touched her fangs thoughtfully as Lamar dropped his dance partner into the water. The corpse landed with a mighty splash. Ginger watched the ripples as she continued, “I grow weary of this. I want more. There is no challenge in humans.”

  “What of the girl?” Vincent questioned. He entered carrying an unconscious middle-aged man over his shoulder. “The one from the club.”

  “I should like to find her,” Lamar stated. “She was strong. I want to break her.”

  “Servaes blocks her presence,” Ginger spat with a bitterness she didn’t bother to conceal. They had looked for the woman with no success. She bent to lift the pole back into position as Vincent handed the man to Lamar for his turn. “He told me he would mark her for himself.”

  “Wait,” Vincent said. “Servaes’ hold will slip. Many grow weary of him. If not for his power, they would revolt.”

  “And when he does slip, we will be there,” Lamar said, easily comforting Ginger under the weight of his burden. Ginger leered. She knew both vampires were wrapped around her warped little pinkie.

  “The girl will come to us,” the vampiress said. “Curiosity will bring her back.”

  “And when it does, we will be waiting for her,” Lamar added. His ominous face lit in the purest of pleasures. Ginger’s smile deepened. Those watching joined Vincent in his laughter. “Now hold that pole steady. I’ll bet you a newborn I can make this one last the whole day.”

  Chapter Ten

  Irritating rays of sunlight filtered into Hathor’s bedroom from the balcony window to mark the lateness of morning. She groaned, protesting the daylight. Taking her pillow from under her head with a hard jerk, she crushed the softness to her face. When the thick pad stifled her breath, she huffed furiously and threw it to the floor.

  With a resolute sigh, she crawled from the large bed. She didn’t bother to check her mirror as she passed by to her private dressing room. She frowned at the antique dress hanging over the back of her chair, refusing to look at it for more than a moment. Grabbing a hair tie off her vanity, she pulled her stiff, tousled locks back into a haphazard ponytail.

  She yawned noisily. Her steps were less lively than the previous morning as she trudged her way to the kitchen. Her feet were sore. Her legs were tired and, worst of all, her lower regions throbbed in discontent at having been so thoroughly neglected. As she moved down the stairs, her shoulders slumped with her tired steps.

  Georgia was not in the kitchen as Hathor made her way through the formal dining room. Sighing with relief that there was at least coffee, she poured herself a mug. Then, hearing a gentle singing from the backdoor, Hathor made her way out to the house garden.

  She succeeded in forming a small smile of greeting for her aunt as she raised her mug in acknowledgment. Standing, Georgia wiped the back of her gloved hand across her foreh
ead with a sigh. A wide-brim hat covered her hair, blocking her face from the hot sun. Her pink T-shirt was tucked in at her waist and she wore an old pair of blue jeans. Lifting a basket of flowers, she said, “These here are some of the last. I thought to put them in a vase so we could enjoy them before winter.”

  Hathor nodded and drank her coffee. She squinted in the sunlight, sitting on the stone step leading from the house. The sun warmed her face. Stifling a yawn, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply. The morning was fresh and pleasant.

  “Are you going to tell me what happened, or must I assume he’s upstairs as we speak?” Georgia teased. She took a seat next to her niece and nudged her in the arm.

  “He is not upstairs,” Hathor stated. She couldn’t help laughing at her aunt’s disappointed expression. “And last night was lovely. He brought a CD player, and we danced for hours—”

  “Oh,” Georgia beamed in girlish excitement. “What kind of music?”

  “Waltzes, gallopade, some other kind that I can’t remember how to pronounce,” she answered, trying to hide her blush with a yawn. “Servaes is a very accomplished dancer and he is incredibly smart. He speaks different languages, knows about ancient Egyptian mythology, and seems well traveled and experienced.”

  “So, when are you going to see him again?”

  “I think he is a bit much.” Hathor watched her coffee as she swirled the dark liquid in circles. “I don’t know that I’ll go back out with him.”

  “Why on earth not?” Georgia’s eyes rounded in surprise. “He sounds absolutely charming.”

  “He is. But I sort of got scared and yelled at him.” Hathor slowly stood, before reaching to help her aunt to her feet.

  Georgia swatted at her niece’s hand, doing it herself. She leaned over to pick up her basket before leading the way back into the house. “That doesn’t sound like you. You must really like him if you’re pushing him away so soon.”

  “Yeah, I do, Georgie. I’ve never met anyone like him. In some strange way it is almost like we’ve known each other for years.” Hathor’s voice became wistful with longing. Her feet shuffled along the floor. “When I’m with him, I get the feeling he feels the same way.”

  “Then what is the problem?”

  “What if I’m wrong?” Hathor asked in exasperation. “I don’t want to be played for a fool.”

  “You could invite him over for dinner. I’ll be happy to cook,” Georgia offered, hoping to get a look at her niece’s mystery man. “Then I could watch him for you and give you my opinion.”

  “I don’t know,” Hathor mumbled. “It is just that he is so incredibly handsome—”

  “You’ve mentioned that, dear,” Georgia interjected.

  “And I know he must have women trailing after him everywhere he goes,” she continued, pretending like the older woman hadn’t spoken.

  “And you got scared and pushed him away because you didn’t think a charming, smart, handsome man could possibly be interested in you,” Georgia concluded.

  “Yes. That is it exactly. I can’t compete.”

  “Is he asking you to compete? Surely he’s interested if he went to all this trouble to get you to see him. How many men would go to such lengths just to make you happy on a first date? What other man, alive or dead, can you think of that would know exactly what kind of evening you would like, especially with only just having met you?”

  “None, but that is what frightens me. If he can read me like that and I buy into it, what happens if he’s not sincere? What happens if I fall in love with him? Because I can see it happening, Georgie. I’ve never felt so strongly, so fast. I’ve never felt so strongly period. I can’t take another disappointment. I can’t take finding out the man I love is with someone else.”

  “It’s not your fault what happened between you and Tom.” Georgia sighed. Hathor had been more reserved since breaking off her engagement to her on-and-off high school and college sweetheart. “It’s for the best. He was never right for you.”

  “I know. I was with him so I would have an excuse not to date anyone else. Listen, I don’t want to talk about it.” Hathor couldn’t finish her coffee so she poured it into the sink. She stared at the dark trails over white porcelain before turning on the water. “Shouldn’t we be drinking tea or something since we’re in England?”

  “Ah, tea is overrated. Besides, when there are guests we have teatime every day promptly at four.” Georgia patted her niece’s shoulder. “Why don’t you go take a nice warm bath and get dressed? I plan to take you around town today. What is the point of having all this widow money if we don’t go shopping?”

  “All right,” Hathor agreed. “I need to bring that dress by the cleaners anyway so I can give it back. Servaes said to keep it, but I can’t do that. I don’t want him to get in trouble if it comes up missing from a prop room. Besides, it is a shame for it never to get used again.”

  “Hmm,” Georgia answered. “For a girl who claims to not want to talk about Servaes, you’re doing a poor job of it.”

  “So, what all are we doing today?” Hathor ignored her as she fingered her messy hair.

  “I’m taking you to my spa for a haircut and manicure.”

  “Spa? Do they douse you in mud and make you lie still for hours with cucumbers on your eyelids?” Hathor’s forehead wrinkled in distaste. She glanced doubtfully at Georgia.

  “There is nothing like a seaweed mud wrap to make you feel inspired,” Georgia said with a wink. “Maybe it will help build your confidence.”

  “Ugh, no thanks.” Hathor made her way upstairs. “You can keep your kelp. I’ll use soap. But I’ll take the haircut. I need one.”

  Georgia giggled, her voice ringing with delight as she called, “All right, no mud wrap this time. But someday you have got to try it!”

  Chapter Eleven

  “And he took you dancing?” the red-haired beautician gawked in open amazement. Her slender body moved with energetic grace as her fingers slipped through the wet tresses of Hathor’s hair. Her lips puckered as she lifted her shears to gently trim off the ends. Hathor watched her quietly, noticing that the woman, like every other cosmetologist working in the salon, wore too much makeup and hairspray. Yet, somehow, the excess fitted them. Shaking her head, the woman waved over a few of her friends from nearby stations. “Sara, Nan, you have got to hear this.”

  Nan, a stout woman with an energetic walk and dyed black hair that sprouted about her head in short curls, smiled as she took a seat in a nearby salon chair. Her stiff British voice clipped, “What’s this, Candi?”

  “This one,” Candi answered, lifting Hathor’s mahogany locks into her comb, “had a date last night.” Instead of cutting, she waved her shears around in animation. “This bloke shows up in a top hat, an old-fashioned tux, with some old music, and takes her dancing in a garden. And that’s not the half of it. Look in that box. Earlier in the day, he sends her this dress and shoes—”

  “And a corset and chemise,” piped in Georgia, watching her niece’s blushing face. Georgia lifted the lid from her dryer and made her way over to better hear. She had been only too happy to confess the whole story while Candi rolled her hair into a curler set. “He had it delivered by two servants in a carriage. Very handsomely done.”

  Hathor glanced uncomfortably around the fashionable London parlor. The metal-edged walls of cutout circles, and the trendy posters sporting haircuts she’d never seen on a living person, offered no relief from the gossip. The excited cosmetologists sighed dreamily. It was early afternoon and most of their coworkers looked to be on a lunch break.

  “So, what happened?” Sara asked.

  “She turns him away at the end of the night,” Candi announced in disbelief.

  “And he wasn’t even that way,” Georgia offered with a meaningful twist of her hand. “He liked her.”

  The women giggled. Hathor glanced at her aunt in open-mouthed astonishment.

  “If he was as cute as you say, I would have dragged him into my
bed,” Candi admitted, “and given the bloke a proper send off.”

  “Can we see the dress?” Sara asked with a shy smile.

  “Yeah, go ahead.” Georgia got up and went over to her shopping bags next to the large box. “We just picked it up from the cleaners next door so be careful.”

  As the women lifted the lid, Georgia dug into her shopping bag. “And here, look at this.”

  She handed a box over to the women. Hathor frowned. She recognized it as the jeweled necklace Servaes had given her. Georgia had shown them to almost everyone they encountered.

  Nan looked at the jewelry as Sara set the lid back over the dress with an exclamation of awe. Nan’s plump fingers ran over the cool blue stones. Sara came over and glanced around her friend’s shoulder.

  “Here,” Sara said. “Let me see that.”

  Nan handed it to her.

  “Done,” Candi announced, whipping the cape off Hathor’s shoulders. “Are you sure you don’t want me to dry and style it?”

  “No, I’ll manage,” Hathor answered.

  “Oh my,” Sara exclaimed suddenly, “these are real!”

  “What?” Hathor gasped, finally deigning to join the conversation. She got out of the chair and pulled her wet hair back into a ponytail at the nape of her neck. “No, they’re just great fakes.”

  “No,” Sara shook her head. “My father is an antique dealer. I used to help him appraise jewels and paintings for the museum collectors. This necklace is very old. You can tell by the way the settings are fashioned together.” As she spoke, she got up and went to her purse. Taking out an eye loop to get a better look, she said, “Yes. And these jewels are very real. I would say France, maybe Italy, sixteen, seventeen hundreds. The fakes don’t look like this.”