Redeemer of Shadows

by Michelle M. Pillow

  Hathor eyed him resignedly before doing as he ordered. She was frightened and aroused by the silken feel beneath her palms. Hathor leaned over and took off her boots and socks, throwing them on the ground next to her. He smiled in amusement.

  “Do you mind?” Hathor asked hesitantly. “I can’t sleep with anything on my feet.”

  Servaes shook his head. “Just hurry. The dawn is coming.”

  She unbuttoned her jeans and un-tucked her linen shirt. Then, lying down on the flat surface, she looked up at him. Her heart beat as he came over her, crawling with a deliberate slowness. His hand supported his weight by her head. His knees edged in-between her thighs, brushing erotically against her. Her body jerked with liquid fire, burning hot in her veins. He paused, gazing down at her to see her reaction. With one slow bend of the elbow he could be upon her, trapping her supple body beneath his. He could claim the softness of her for his own.

  Hathor shyly turned her eyes downward. A blush lined her cheeks at his perusal. He lowered his body and fit next to hers, nestling his hips along her helpless thigh even though he was careful to keep the length of his arousal from her flesh. He pulled her to him so her face pressed near his chest. Her legs twined with his strong ones, held close in the embrace of a lover.

  “What if I can’t breathe?” she questioned. His hand lifted to close the lid. She cuddled next to his body as the darkness closed in on them. A silence, threatened only by the beatings of their hearts, engulfed them. Her head nestled on the soft satin pillow, her hair tickled his chin, and her breath fanned his neck.

  Servaes grimaced. Her body was torture. Its soft curves and supple texture enticed him with a savage lust. His fingers stiffened and stretched with the effort it took not to caress her. When finally he had his longing under control, he let his hand wrap protectively around her waist. He felt her move, her mind drifting to sleep.

  “Do not worry, ma petite,” he murmured against her temple before placing a kiss on her silken locks. He smelled traces of shampoo scented with wild flowers and fallen leaves. His mouth ached to taste her, all of her.

  Servaes knew she wasn’t immune to him. He saw the hesitant desire in her eyes as she looked at him. He felt the intense heat coming from between her legs as her sex pressed near. The sweet nectar of her smell engulfed his senses as the compelling perfume filled the coffin with its wickedly delightful temptations.

  As he said the words, he wondered again why he bothered. “So long as you are with me, you will be protected.”

  “Yes,” she mumbled. He knew she was more exhausted than she’d ever been in her life. Becoming captured by a sleep more powerful than her lust, only because it carried a hint of death inside it, she breathed, “You are my protector, Marquis le Vampire. I trust you. With you I am unafraid.”

  Servaes felt her slip into oblivion. Her body cradled next to him. Her words slapped him across the face like a burst of sunlight. She was foolish to believe herself safe with him. He was more dangerous to her than the others, for he wanted more of her.

  Her feet moved restlessly to dig by the flesh of his ankle. His coffin was spacious but, with two of them inside, their bodies were compelled together. He couldn’t help the smile that lined his lips as he pulled her closer against him. Her chest rose softly with her breaths that brushed along his cheek as she exhaled.

  Servaes closed his eyes. He knew he would soon join her in the dark, dreamless world of unconscious sleep. However, before he let himself slip, he pressed another kiss to her forehead, content to not be alone.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Hathor awoke the next dusk with a moan of contentment. By the relaxation in her body, she imagined she’d slept for an eternity. By the energy humming in her veins, she felt as if the darkness of dreams turned her back into a small, restless child waking up to an adventure.

  Hathor stretched her hands over her head. Her back arched off the softness of her bed. But then, her fingers hit with a hard thunk as they met the solid sides of the coffin. With a jolt, she remembered where she was and opened her eyes. The coffin lid above her was opened. The flickering of candlelight outlined the shadowed ceiling of the cave-like room. Servaes was not by her side, and she couldn’t hear him, though the silence meant nothing since he hardly made a noise when he moved.

  Turning over slowly so that she faced the satiny side, she leaned up to peek over the edge. Her heart beat in anticipation, wanting to see him again. It was not to be. She was alone in the small chamber.

  Giving a light yawn, she pulled herself up. She noticed her arms felt stronger than usual. Curiously, she adjusted her hips. Hopping with ease over the side, she landed neatly on the stone floor, seeming to fly in the air rather than jump. But in doing so she stubbed her toe on a jagged edge and let loose a sharp, “Ow!”

  Hopping on one foot, she brought her toe up into the candlelight. A tiny smudge of blood ran across the tip. Wiping gingerly at it, she saw that underneath there was no wound from which it could have bled.

  She set her foot gradually back on the floor. Pursing her lips together, she hummed thoughtfully. Then lifting both arms above her head, she jumped, seeing if she could fly. She landed with a thud, not making it more than a few inches off the ground. Hathor laughed at her foolishness.

  Knowing that Servaes was gone, she called to him anyway. “Servaes, are you there?”

  As she anticipated, there was no answer. Wandering around the oblong room, she noticed a trunk in the corner. It looked very old. With a guilty glance over her shoulder, she lifted the lid. Inside she saw some clothing, a pair of pants and a shirt she remembered him wearing on stage. Thinking of that night, she raised her hand to her mouth to feel her teeth. They were flat.

  Lifting the shirt, she found a used quill and old bottle of ink beneath an antique pocket watch, and stiff parchment resembling the letter he sent her bidding her to meet him in the garden. A smile settled on her features as she remembered dancing in his arms. It had felt as if he carried her above the earth. She wondered why he kept her alive when everyone else wanted her dead. She knew the others thought she possessed some secrets. She didn’t. Until the night before, she hadn’t even believed in anything supernatural—let alone vampires.

  Under the parchment were an old book, its words in French, and its cover dusty and worn. She ran her fingers across it, setting it out of the way without opening it to see inside. Next, detecting the glint of a locket in the corner, she lifted it. It was very old. Flipping the delicate catch, she opened it up. Inside was the painted miniature of a boy with dark skin. His hair was cropped short and his eyes glinted with familiar mischief. He had the same slant to his eyes as Servaes and the same bow to his lips. She realized it must have been Servaes as a child.

  Gently latching the jewelry closed, she placed all the items back inside his trunk the way she found them. It wasn’t much for one man to possess, especially one who lived so many years. He should have been living in a palace, not a cave. With a sad sigh, Hathor closed the lid.

  She realized the small trunk, the candle, and the coffin were it. Trailing barefoot over the dirty stone, she ran her hands over the barren walls covered with the ancient lace of spider webs. The webbing stuck to her fingers, pulling down from the wall at her gentle persuasion.

  “He must be so lonely,” she whispered with heartfelt sorrow to the black and silver coffin. “For this is no home. This is no way to spend an eternity.”

  Hathor went to her boots before pulling her socks and shoes over her chilled feet. Standing, she needlessly smoothed the padding of the coffin and closed the lid. Not knowing what to do or where to go, she buttoned her jeans, leaving her shirt to hang over them. The white linen was stained beyond repair.

  Hathor went to the entrance of the cave-like home, crawling on her hands and knees into the tunnel. The other side was dark, not giving a hint as to where it ended. If she remembered correctly, there would be no way down. She would be trapped until Servaes came back for her.

  Wha
t if he doesn’t come back? she wondered, growing fearful. What if he changes his mind and leaves me for dead?

  Hathor scolded herself for being foolish. Her hands reached the edge, slipping slightly before she was able to steady herself. Pebbles fell forward to the ground, crashing softly below her in a rumbling shower. Feeling around the side, it was as she thought. There was no escape. Sighing, she rested in the tunnel, staring out into the darkness with the strength of her eyes. She saw nothing in the distance but the faint outlines of abandoned tracks. It wouldn’t be wise to try an escape. Servaes had said that others were in the tunnels.

  Slowly moving backward the same way she came, she crawled until she was once more inside. Then, resting her back against the wall, she did the only thing she could. She waited.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Servaes stalked the London streets, wiping his lips on his hand to pull away any blood that might remain. He despised the need for blood that ran rampant through his veins each time he awoke. The bloodlust drove him mad if ignored and tore at him when he must indulge.

  But just as he hated his desire for it, he couldn’t deny the sweet power of life that flowed through his limbs each time he drank. It was the thick, sweet essence of immortality, and he could no more deny it than a human could refuse the need for air. If neglected, the baser need would overtake him until he was a raging monster with no control over his actions as he sought the nearest food source. If bad enough, a starved vampire could turn demonic and eat through a small town in the course of an entire night.

  Servaes hated to leave Hathor in his tomb, but had no choice. The others expected him to give a performance at the club. His stronger powers of seduction helped to boil the blood of the victims. His only stipulation was that when brought before him, the human he took must have a dark secret—a sick mind deserving of a harsh death. If he must take life, then he might as well take that which did not need living—murderers, child fornicators, serial rapists. There were always plenty of dark seeds to choose from in the cities. That was why he lived within the crowded settlements. Although at times he missed the quiet solitude of the country life.

  Servaes made his way to the club, blocking thoughts of Hathor from his mind. Instantly, he spied Ginger in the room, her arm around a buxom redhead. Ginger’s eyes shot up in amusement, her mouth curling into a catlike grin as a trail of blood made its crimson way down her chin. A pair of fang-marks dug into the abundant cleavage of her lover’s breast. Servaes showed nothing, but inwardly recoiled in disgust from her.

  His jaw tightened. He hadn’t realized how detestable the Vampire Club really was until he met Hathor. She was pure, so full of light and goodness. He felt it in her. Although he couldn’t read her past deeds or her thoughts, he knew what he felt in her was real.

  As he drifted through the shadows undetected by mesmerized humans, he made his way back to the stage. Already vampire girls were dancing around, drawing attention to their slender, muscular forms. He could smell the passion and lust in the air, permeating like a drug off the human bodies. It was a ruse, this club. It was a game they played to keep themselves from getting bored, put together by some of the younger vampires, and attended by very few of the old in times of monotony. Servaes was the only creature well over two centuries that stayed. This gave him a position of power amongst the group, and he wielded his power with sublime distaste and indifference, not caring what happened to his vampire subjects.

  At the club, Servaes had the illusory respect of the younger vampires. They wouldn’t bother him outside the club, and they gave him whatever he desired, often picking his victims for him and bringing them to the stage. They found his penchant for lowlifes an amusing quirk and often prided themselves on obtaining the sickest soul they could find—like the woman who drowned her children.

  He had approached the vampires of London, having traveled from Africa then Spain. And long before that he had been in Paris, his homeland. Before that still, he covered the world in search of answers he never found. Sometimes the others could sense him, sometimes not, and he was sure there were times he was watched without being approached.

  Servaes had given up fighting his instincts, living a somewhat bitter and shallow half existence stimulated by nothing. He stayed at the club because at least there the others surrounded him. However unemotionally, they shared his prison of night.

  Though most of the young vampires were too ignorant and new to know what they had lost or at what cost they had given it up. It was only with luck that they thought so highly of themselves to not share the gift with other mortals, lest the world be overrun with the undead.

  But it all stopped the night Hathor stumbled into his life. He wanted her then, called her to him to be with him on stage with a bloodlust so powerful he forgot himself. She refused him. He wanted her blood then, only later wanting to possess her body just as deeply.

  Servaes moved onto the stage, not bothering to come up through the floor. He walked behind the dancers, running his hands idly over their flesh as was expected. Out of spite, he cut his nails into them, watching their flesh heal itself. Their chilled bodies were nothing to him, as dead as cold marble—beautiful to look at, desolate to hold.

  Seeing a woman brought before him, he closed his eyes to her face. Her flesh quivered, stripped naked by the dancers. Servaes reached for her. Lifting her from the ground without touching her warm flesh, he waited as a murmur of awe rose over the crowd. The woman was held suspended before them, her hazel eyes rounded in shock. He allowed a part of his mind to wrap around her, numbing her brain to fear, mesmerizing her with his charm.

  Then he turned to the back of the room. Standing, mocking him from the shadows was Vincent. The young vampire nodded in acknowledgment as his eyes rounded in gaiety and his lips parted in a mock bite.

  “What is her crime?” one from the crowd called, urged by his vampire lover.

  “She is one of you,” Servaes stated darkly, honestly, looking at the condemned man stroking himself hard in desire. Inside, Servaes recoiled in disgust. He hated it all. He hated the demonic eyes watching him in amusement. He hated the human trash he was forced to feed on each night. He hated himself. He was weary, so weary of it all.

  At his bold statement, the vampires laughed, compassionless as they unleashed their fangs. The man who held his arousal froze as the sexy vixen he was with lowered her head to him. He grabbed her hair roughly, pushing her down on his member. But his moan soon turned to agony as the blazing heat of fangs drove into his skin, sucking hungrily at the artery in his thigh to drain him of his impassioned blood. Soon the frightened cries of those lured to the vampire den joined the man in a crescendo of dying victims.

  The vampires on stage jumped at the suspended woman held still by Servaes’ power. Servaes instantly let her go. She fell to the floor, taking the temptresses with her.

  “I am done,” Servaes announced, walking from the stage to never come back. A few glanced at him curiously, their eyes moving up as they continued to drink from their meal. They all wondered at his foul mood, though they had all known this day would eventually come—as all things must in an eternity of night. The old vampire didn’t answer their inquiries. Quietly, he walked over littering corpses as they fell onto the floor. He concealed his disgust, unwilling to let the others feel it in him.

  “Marquis,” Servaes paused to look dispassionately at Vincent’s summons. The man smiled, flashing his bloodied teeth. His lips didn’t move, as he said, “Jirí would like a word with you.”

  Servaes nodded and shot back nonchalantly, “I thought I sensed him about.”

  Vincent’s eyes narrowed in surprise, as the marquis didn’t seem too upset that the unreadable girl was dead. Thoughtfully, he shrugged, turning to watch the corpses being pulled from the floor. “Bloody undead bastard.”

  Servaes heard the vampire’s silent swearing as he walked leisurely from the club. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his breeches, strolling down the city street. He watc
hed moving shadows spill forth to make their way over London.

  Gaining speed as he moved farther away from the club, he wound his way to the Tower Bridge to cross over it undetected. Then, seeing the Tower of London, he smiled ruefully, knowing where to find his friend. He jumped and flew over the old castle structure, over the gatehouse and many towers, until with a brief laugh he stopped below a short square building. Leaping up from the ground to the roof with ease, he landed neatly on his feet.

  Jirí’s back was to him, his hands folded behind as he gazed over the surrounding landscape. The flashing lights of the city enveloped the old vampire’s figure—blinking and cold. The lights reflected off the water in various flecks of colors, waving gently over the rippled surface. The artificial glow was so different from that which they remembered.

  “I miss the fire of torches and the sounds of a strong destrier’s hooves pounding into the earthen paths of my homeland. Do you know they have festivals celebrating how we lived when I was human? They call it Renaissance, a rebirth. I wonder if we should go show them what rebirth really means. I hear the festivals are very popular in the New World.” Servaes saw the old vampire’s nails grazing over the backs of his fingers restlessly. Not bothering to turn around, Jirí said in his dark, steady voice, “I knew you wouldst find me, old friend.”

  “The Bloody Tower,” Servaes mused, crossing over the roof. That was what the tower had been called since before his human birth. “You always had an uncanny sense of irony.”

  Sniffing the night, Jirí finally turned to face him. The air wheezed from his lungs leisurely. A smile spread across his handsome face. His voice was hoarse with indifference. “Can you not smell it? The old death? Even after centuries the deeds down below this roof still resonate—some of them older than you, my dear Marquis. And now tourists come to listen to the horror of what was done like a play, with no idea of those who lived before. All of them want a piece of the past without the pain. I do not blame them. This new era is tiresome to me. There is no flavor left in the blood. It no longer tastes pure. It has become mixed and weak, like peasants’ soup.”