Redeemer of Shadows

by Michelle M. Pillow

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Hathor’s eyes flew open with a jolt. She was still on the ship. Sighing with a morose sense of relief, she turned over to look at Servaes’ sleeping face. He was so handsome, even sick and pale as he was. She touched him delicately in the dimming light of the lantern. Her hand glided lovingly over his whiskered jaw. His flesh smelled of sweat and musk. She didn’t care. His lips parted, drawing breath. She smiled, despite everything around them.

  She didn’t know how long she slept with him, only that her body was stiff from the boards. Resting her hand against his heart, she felt it beating in soft, soothing thumps. His lips parted, murmuring almost contentedly. His hand weakly moved over hers in a soft caress. Content to sleep, Hathor let her eyes drift closed.

  But before she could once more find her rest, the boat lurched and banged to a halt. Above her she heard the stomping of feet, and then shouts as those on board ran to the side. Nervously, she sat up, protectively holding her arm to Servaes.

  “What?” Servaes mumbled, coming awake. His color looked better, but he was still weak from his wound. He tried to push himself up next to her. Again the boat crashed. He drew her to his chest, trying to protect her from whatever would come. Hathor let him hold her.

  The hatch was thrown open. A burly man stuck his head beneath the deck. His eyes narrowed as he looked about in the dimness. Servaes shoved Hathor behind him, crouching to his feet to block her from view. She placed her hand on his back as she nervously hovered next to him and felt his body tense.

  “There you are, laddie,” the man spat in broken English. “Welcome to your new home.”

  Hathor gripped at Servaes’ waist, hoping her nervous hand would give him small comfort. Roughly, he asked, “Where?”

  “The New World, laddie. America,” the man shouted almost gleefully. A hard sailor’s chuckle escaped his lips. “Come out of there and see your new home.”

  The man disappeared from the hatch. Servaes fell back to sit on his feet. He looked at Hathor in stunned horror. “They have shipped me off to the colonies without money or proof of title. I have no way of proving myself and going back home. The passage aboard a ship is too expensive, lest I am able to find work on one. But that is not possible. I know nothing of the sea. I am exiled. All I have is the memory of you before me. I will never make it back to you, Hathor. I’m sorry.”

  Hathor saw his fear. He was stuck in a strange land, feeling alone. She reminded herself she was only a dream to him, perhaps as he was to her. None of this was real. But the longer she stayed in the dream, the more real it felt and the more she fell in love with the human Servaes. Her heart beat solemnly for him. How alone he must have felt. She reached up to touch his face. She could tell by the marks on his neck that his time of changing was soon. The purpling wounds hadn’t healed.

  “You will find me again, Servaes,” she whispered. “This I do know.”

  He leaned forward, wanting to believe her but not. His hand reached up to caress her face. She smiled sadly at him. Tears welled in her eyes and brimmed over her lashes. He looked at her warm, pink skin, so clean and pure. He looked at her lips, parted in heavy breath, drawn tight with worry.

  Slowly, the world began to pitch and swirl. Hathor cried out, knowing what was to come. She was again leaving him, moving forward in time as he was left behind. She was going to see the end of his story, and the end of the only man she could love. She damned the vampire for showing her this world, for tormenting her with what could never be. The images of their life together whirled in her head like memories—distinct and unfettered.

  “I’m afraid I’ll be leaving you soon,” Hathor whispered. She glanced up at the opened hatch before looking him in the eyes. Stroking his cheek, she said, “Now, don’t be frightened. Go meet with your destiny.”

  Servaes drew a small comfort from her reassuring words. Her eyes looked so earnest and true. Leaning forward, he pressed his lips to hers to stifle whatever else she would say to him. Words didn’t matter.

  Hathor moaned, feeling him against her mouth. She opened her eyes. His were closed.

  By small degrees, she started to fade. Servaes lurched forward, trying to stop her. She gave him a sad smile and disappeared completely. The last sound of his voice echoed like a whisper in her head, “Hathor…”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  American Colonies, 1682

  The crisp, cold air of morning floated over the wharves, swirling the fog in misty patterns to obscure the distance. The coast was lined with rocks and sand as the docked ships floated just beyond the shores. Not far from the edge was the dense setting of trees surrounding a small settlement of wooden houses and indistinguishable storefronts.

  Below the deck of the newly arrived cargo ship, Servaes cursed bitterly. He could taste Hathor’s kiss on his lips as if it had been real. Swearing himself as insane, he stumbled to his feet. His legs wobbled unsteadily as he crossed to grab his boots. He slid on his yellowed stockings before pulling his boots over them. Reaching into the corner, behind an empty barrel, he pulled out his waistcoat and cravat. Slipping them over his head, he then did the same with his overcoat.

  The clothing was a gift from his manservant, smuggled to him while he awaited his punishment. His prison had been a small room in the palace. He hadn’t been there long before the king had him drugged and carted aboard a seagoing vessel. Now he knew to where he was exiled. He was abandoned in America, and all for allegedly making unseemly advances toward the king’s mistress. In those first days, as he lay battered and bruised from the king’s guards, he tried to remember any slight he might have made to cause such action against him. He could think of nothing. He had no known enemies.

  Servaes forced his weakened limbs to pull his body up the ladder. His fingers shook, gripping through their stiffness at the rungs, as he climbed out of his prison. The day that greeted him was dank and misty. The diffused light blinded him, and he fell weakly to the deck, crawling from the hole onto the solid boards of the vessel. Around him was silence. The ship rocked gently, bumping into the dock with an even clunk, clunk.

  Servaes stood, stumbling his way to the side of the boat. His head whirled with nausea. He stared blankly over the edge of the cargo ship, and fell to his knees. The dark ocean churned restlessly beneath him. The salty air rose with the mist to coat his face in a damp blessing. Servaes took a deep breath of fresh air, closing his eyes to the briny waters. A bell rang in the distance, its sound as lonely as the morning seagull’s call.

  When no one came to rouse him from his place on the deck, he struggled to his feet. Frowning, he saw only a handful of men working on the ship. For all that they traveled above him, they looked as if they fared little better than he. Their drawn faces were pale, without the light of merriment that usually met them as they docked in a new port full of promise and the varied choice of women of loose morals.

  Servaes hugged his overcoat around his arms, ignoring the stares the sailors gave him. He stumbled down the ramp and turned his gaze to the ground as he passed by them on the dock.

  None of them spoke to the man they’d carted across the world. A few of them turned away, afraid of the traveler. They believed he was the one who brought such death and sickness to the boat as to kill over half of the crew. All knew the whispers of the ghosts that traveled with him, believing them to be evil spirits. Servaes ignored them and didn’t turn back as he ventured into the small colonial town.

  The road was of dust, and the buildings of planked, whitewashed wood. Occasionally a wagon carting goods would pass the hunched, solitary figure wandering in the early morning. The drivers ignored him as they urged their horses faster.

  Servaes stopped, eyeing the distance. The road stretched out before him, curling down an unfamiliar path. Looking above the roofs of the buildings, he saw only the tops of trees. The air was fresh, cleansed by sea, but even that didn’t comfort him. For with the freshness came a foreign smell he didn’t recognize as home.

 
“Master Keys?”

  Servaes turned dully at the sound. His feet shuffled in small movements, the effort almost not worth making. He tried to make out the English words in his head, not knowing what they could mean. His brain was numb, his stomach hungry, and his body so weary he felt as if he might drop to his death at any moment. If death came for him at the moment, he would welcome it.

  Servaes’ sunken, haggard eyes found a lone boy running up the street. The lad’s thin shoulders bounced as he jogged easily to the gaunt man. His small eyes took in the gentleman’s tattered clothing.

  “Be ye Master Keys?” the young boy asked.

  “Be I what?” Servaes croaked. His English was heavily accented with the language of his birth. He narrowed his eyes to better study the lad, noting the wind-tousled blond hair curling about his ears and pockmarked face. He was young, maybe in his early teens, but not likely.

  “Be ye Master Mark Keys?” the boy asked, stressing his words slowly as if the man were daft.

  “I am the Marquis de Norm—” Servaes began weakly. His chapped lips stung and bled with the words.

  “That’s what I said, isn’t it? Mark Keys,” the boy huffed with a shake of his head. “Yer to come with me, Mark.” When Servaes looked at him questioningly, he sighed, “Come on then, it’s too cold to be standin’ about waitin’ fer the sun to shine. I don’t get paid if yeh don’t come on.”

  Servaes had to concentrate to understand the boy’s strange accent. It was a mix of England and the New World, he assumed. Only catching the gist of what the boy said, Servaes inquired, “Who gave you money?”

  “Yer mate, Mark. ‘E said yeh’d be a-wantin’ food and a place to lie down.”

  As they passed several buildings, the boy pointed aimlessly at them, rattling off names Servaes couldn’t understand. He couldn’t force his mind to translate that which was spoken so rapidly.

  The boy, who Servaes soon learned was named Samuel, brought him to a building as rough as the rest. It only took him a moment to understand it was a boarding house for the sailors. The marquis didn’t care, as long as he was led to a warm cot and a fire. Samuel’s mother, a portly woman with beefy arms, welcomed him in with a bright smile and small bow. He somehow got the impression she knew of his station.

  The mother pushed her young daughter forward. Servaes wryly noted the hope in her eyes as she presented the plump girl for his inspection. Servaes shook his head, pretending not to understand the mother’s words, as she spouted the talents of her daughter—talents that could be bought for a small price. The daughter smiled shyly, almost fainting with relief when the rough-looking gentleman paid her no mind. The mother’s disappointment was obvious, but she let Samuel lead the marquis away to his rented chamber.

  It was with a vague relief and heavy heart that Servaes shut his door to the world. He fell onto the cot, intent on not moving. His body spun from his months on the ocean, and his head throbbed with thoughts of Hathor. Closing his eyes, he blocked out the small chamber. He couldn’t help but wonder if any of it was true at all. If he could pick the reality he would have, he would pick Hathor and the life he imagined for them.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Servaes slept through the first day and through all of the night, hardly moving in his exhaustion. When he did awaken, he felt somewhat refreshed. Grabbing a loaf of bread left on the only table in his room, he quickly ate it. He didn’t taste the food as he swallowed it down with a mug of warm ale. His clothes were still on, stinking and tattered from the journey. His skin crawled as if it were covered in insects.

  When he stepped from the chamber he was met with the surprised eyes of the Baker family—nine children in all, tow-headed rascals the whole lot of them. Servaes’ gaze met with Samuel’s. He vaguely recognized the boy. Through stunted words and numerous gestures, Servaes managed to secure a bath. When he pointed to his clothes, the woman laughed, handing him a package.

  Inside was a new wardrobe, as stiff and pristine as he’d ever worn. The mother also gave him a crude razor with a basin of water, pointing to his face in indication that he should shave. No one could tell him who his benefactor was, although they did say he’d been by the night before with the clothing. It was a fact that made Servaes uneasy. When he told his hostess he had no money to pay her, again she laughed and shooed him to his room with the admission that everything had been taken care of in advance.

  Night fell over the American town, its name unknown to Servaes, who never thought to ask and didn’t understand when told. It didn’t matter, for he was not home. Dressed in his new clothes, his face clean-shaven, Servaes made his way into the evening. He denied Samuel’s enthusiastic offer to accompany him. The boy frowned in disappointment, but left the nobleman alone.

  Servaes made his way into the dark evening. The night was lit with crude lanterns along the main street. In the distance, he detected a piano and the loud singing of a drunken chorus. Servaes’ body begged him for a drink, but he didn’t have the energy or the spare coin to grace a common pub so he held back.

  Above him the stars stretched for miles, unobstructed by the buildings. They looked the same as home, giving him some sense of connection. Scratching his head, which he had left bare, he walked in the opposite direction of the pub toward the solitary sound of the ocean. The plea of the chilling waves called to him, begging him to jump into its inky depths with the promise that they would carry him back to France.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The docks were quiet. The moon shone full and proud over the water, as the ocean lapped up the sides of the giant ships. The subtle laughter of a sailor and his paid woman drifted up from under the deck as Hathor hurried by. Her heart beat frantically, Servaes’ kiss warm on her mouth.

  “Servaes? When is this going to end? Get me out of here,” she whispered fervently between her teeth. The night air didn’t respond. As a cool breeze whipped about her, she pulled the waistcoat closer to her form. Chills racked her tired and stiff body. Her eyes strained to the distance, trying to see her aunt’s house across the length of the endless ocean. The water only continued, blending with the stars until they met in the blinding distance with unearthly beauty.

  “Servaes, I can’t take this nightmare anymore. Get me out of here. I want to go home. Fine, I will sleep with you if that’s what you want. I will be your slave. Just make this end. Make me forget it. I want to go home.”

  She knew she must look like a madwoman, sputtering in anger at the wind. Her outrage was not answered. Then a thought struck her. She wondered if she was to see the whole expanse of Servaes’ life—from human to vampire to the night in the club where she first saw his cold eyes staring at her from the stage. The thought left her faint. She wanted to know everything about him, but she wasn’t sure she wanted the pain of living through it. Already her heart was broken with an unbearably aching emotion. She knew the man she loved was going to die, and not from some disease or illness, but to be reborn as a night stalker, a vampire. His soul would be killed perhaps, but his handsome body would be left behind to haunt her with the knowledge of what she couldn’t have.

  When the blurring and pitching of her body had stopped, she was at the end of the dock, still dressed as a commoner. Already two salty sea creatures with the appearance of men propositioned her. She stormed away from the drunken louts with heavy threats and a frightened heart. She had no proof that nothing bad could happen to her in this dream world. Every ache and twitch of her body felt very real.

  Before meeting the human Servaes, she’d felt herself falling for his vampire form. But now, after having felt the tenderness of what he once had been, the leftover of what he’d become was heart wrenching. His human eyes were so full of life and humor. His human smile was careless and radiant.

  Tripping on a loosened board, Hathor fell forward to the deck. Pain shot bitterly throughout her stiff body. Her wrist throbbed at the hard jolt. Unexpectedly, she began to cry.

  She couldn’t stop the tears, as she looked arou
nd from her place on the ground. Wiping her nose on her sleeve, she sniffed, wondering where she should go. Before, Servaes had been right there in front of her.

  Losing the will to go anywhere, she stayed on the dock, waiting to see if anyone would come to her. The docks were so big, the nearby town so foreign. Looking about only made her cry harder. And then, with a loud sniff, she saw him.

  She tried to stand, desperately wanting to call to him. But her body wouldn’t move. Her voice wouldn’t work.

  Servaes stepped closer, his face tired and stretched. His eyes were fixed on the ocean. A dark frown marred his brow as he stepped to the edge of the dock. Hathor saw what he contemplated. She knew he thought of jumping into the dark abyss. His arms lifted from his side, and he leaned weakly forward. Her heart reached out to stop him. Her jaw opened. No sound escaped. She was stuck, frozen like a wayward piece of driftwood, unable to move until time decided she should. Then she saw Jirí, standing in the shadows, watching the unsuspecting man she loved.

  With a flash, Jirí was in front of Servaes, stopping him from ending his life. The vampire cocked his head and smiled. Servaes stiffened, backing away. The vampire’s smile widened as he stepped around the nervous young man in inspection. Laughing in giddy pleasure, Jirí came back around to Servaes’ front.

  “Ah, my very young Marquis de Normant, I have waited a long time for this gentle eve,” Jirí exclaimed in perfect French. His dark hazel eyes glowed eerily in the moonlight. Hathor again tried to scream. Her voice sputtered out in a pant that sounded like the howling of the wind. The men didn’t notice.