Redeemer of Shadows

by Michelle M. Pillow

  “That simple, eh?”

  “Yea,” Jirí said, “that simple.”

  “Is it going to hurt?” she asked, before clarifying. “What the council is going to do to me, will it hurt?”

  Jirí shrugged. “I will do my best to block any pain from you. You must open your mind to let me do so. I will make it as if you were not even there.”

  Hathor studied his cold face, until with no small amazement she realized that he was hiding a wealth of compassion in his savage depths. His eyes narrowed carefully.

  “You have someone, don’t you?” she asked in wonderment. “Someone like me.”

  Jirí’s eyes flashed with discomfort. He didn’t answer.

  “I love Servaes,” she put forth.

  “I can feel that you do.”

  “Then help me. Help us,” Hathor begged. “Take me to him. Tell him that there is no other way because the council is going kill me. Tell him you can read me and I do want to be with him. Tell him I’m not confused. Tell him you can feel it. You can too, can’t you? You know I speak the truth.”

  “I am to bring you to the council,” he stated darkly. Then, scratching behind his ear, he sighed. “Oh, very well, I will let you say goodbye to him if he will come. But you have to wait here this time. No running off. As soon as I feed I will come back for you.”

  Jirí stood, walking over to the balcony door. He pulled it open with his will. He was about to leave when her words stopped him.

  “I didn’t run off,” Hathor said. “Someone took me to him.”

  Jirí glanced at her, trying to read whom. He saw a vague impression in her mind, but couldn’t tell who it was. It was someone old, of that he was sure. Was the council checking up on him? Did one of the other tribal leaders have an interest in her? Or was it someone else, an old vampire who knew her secret? Without answering her, he turned and fell into the night sky, traveling with the wind in search of food. The questions inside him still lingered.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Hathor clung to the side of the Bloody Tower’s rooftop. Chills traveled through her body, making her nervous and excited at the same time. She watched the night sky. It was spectacular, dazzlingly beautiful from the taller height. Her eyes looked past the sparkling stars, searching for Servaes. Then, finding a shooting star in his stead, she turned her attention back to Jirí. He was only too happy to pass the time telling her the horrible stories of what happened beneath the square stone rooftop.

  “In the sixteenth century, King Edward V and his younger brother the Duke of York were both murdered at the tender age of about thirteen. I still remember it. One was smothered with a pillow. The other stabbed. It was quite the scandal of the day,” Jirí said. “For a time the bodies were buried in the basement under a pile of rubble. Then they were moved over there, by the White Tower, though the graves were forgotten for nearly a hundred years.”

  Hathor followed Jirí’s finger, shivering at the idea.

  “Is there a reason why you’re telling me this?” she questioned sharply. “Or are you just bored and feeling chatty?”

  “I only want you to understand what you are asking for. I see you tremble for those boys who died so long ago. It turns your stomach to think on it, does it not?” Jirí smiled. She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. “That is why I do not change women. They lack the strength to last the centuries. And, more oft than not, they are the ones to go mad. Methinks it is because of the instinct of motherhood in them. Women are softer than men are. They are meant to love and give life. Men naturally take it. Men are warriors, women are mothers.”

  “That is the most antiquated—” Hathor began.

  “I am antiquated,” Jirí chuckled. “I am still right. Inherently, women are the fairer sex. In being such, they are not made for killing and—”

  “And should be protected from such things,” Hathor finished with a small smirk. It might have been an old notion, but it was still a nice one in theory.

  “Yea, and protected,” he admitted ruefully.

  “Then why would you bring me to the council?” She shot him a challenging look. “Shouldn’t you protect me, a woman?”

  “It is not the same. It is my duty to bring you. I should not even have brought you here,” he stated coolly, unaffected by her charge.

  “Then why did you?” Servaes asked, appearing from the darkness.

  “I wondered when you were going to show yourself, friend.” Jirí’s back was to Servaes as he looked out over the city. He didn’t turn to him.

  “I could little refuse your invite, Father,” he said indifferently. Jirí was not fooled by his tone. “What kind of son would I be?”

  Hathor gasped as he took a quick look at her. She rushed forward only to stop when she saw the hard set of his jaw. “You’re still angry, aren’t you?”

  Servaes glared at her, silencing her for the moment. He refused to acknowledge her otherwise. Hathor held back. Turning once more to Jirí, Servaes asked, “Why have you brought her to me?”

  “Methought you might like to bid her farewell afore I deliver her into the hands of the elders. They wish to feast on her. I daresay, though, with all your blood in her, they might want to wait a few months,” Jirí chuckled quietly. He was enjoying himself. “Perchance it is because I have grown soft in my old age.”

  Servaes snorted in disbelief.

  “Do you want me to take her now?” Jirí shot to his friend when Servaes didn’t answer. Hathor watched, frightened. She couldn’t hear him.

  “I thought I had a month,” Servaes said, not answering Jirí’s thoughts.

  “Ah, that.” Jirí waved his hand over the night before placing it once more behind his back. “The council has spoken. If she is alive and human they want her. They all want a taste of her. In fact, they are most anxious.”

  “I won’t let you take her,” Servaes warned.

  “You will not have a choice.” Jirí shot a dark glance over his shoulder. “If you, by some outrageous miracle, stop me, then others will come.”

  “I’ll take her to America. Tell the elders she is dead.” Servaes took a menacing step forward.

  “Nay, I will not lie for a blood being. The council will see it easily.”

  “They will kill her, Jirí.” Servaes finally looked at Hathor. Her face was pale and drawn.

  She suddenly realized how real of a fate the council was for her. Servaes’ tortured eyes searched hers. In a flash she saw rows of fangs slicing into her body at once. She felt the endless days of torture that would await her as they probed and studied and tasted.

  “Yea,” Jirí returned, “they will. You should have killed her yourself, my son, for now it is too late.”

  Servaes growled and bounded with fury at Jirí’s back. The older vampire sidestepped the charge easily, feeling it coming before Servaes even moved. Servaes flew over the side of the building, dipping below the edge before reappearing with a leap onto the stone. Jirí’s hands fell to the side as they glared at each other.

  “You will not win, my son,” Jirí whispered. “If I do not bring her, more will follow.”

  “He’s right, Servaes.” Hathor saw his glowing eyes, a burning fire that reflected just as darkly as Jirí’s. She shivered at the deadly force of both vampires as they faced each other. “They won’t stop coming for me. Not until I’m dead.”

  “I’ll protect her.” Servaes growled, not taking his eyes from Jirí.

  “From Ragnhild? Amon?” Jirí asked with a disdainful scowl. “You are a fool if you truly believe you can. Yea, Servaes, I know them all well. I know what they will do. Am I not the one who represents our tribe now as Vladamir sleeps? The stories of the council are true. You cannot fight all seven tribal leaders and me. They are too powerful.”

  “You know the death they will give her, Jirí,” Servaes shouted. He leaped down from the edge, stalking forward to move around Jirí in a circle. Suddenly, he burst forward, slamming into Jirí’s waist. Hathor screamed as the men fought acr
oss the tower roof, only to stumble and fall over the other side. She ran after them to look down. Jirí was on the ground, Servaes atop him. Then, just as quickly, Jirí pushed up from the earth, and the men flew over Hathor’s head, missing it by mere inches with their boots, to land on their feet behind her.

  “Then finish her. Kill her,” Jirí ordered, pressing his hands into Servaes’ shoulders as he moved him back. “You have the power to make her death painless, but do it now afore any others discover the chance I gave you.”

  “I cannot.” Servaes growled. Hathor gasped. His gaze softened when he looked at her. The fight drained from his body. Turning his troubled gaze to Jirí, he whispered, “I cannot do it.”

  Jirí nodded his head, hiding his smile from both lovers. He released his hold, letting his arms drop as he backed off. Lifting his jaw, he let an emotionless mask fall over his face. Quietly, he commanded, “Then turn her.”

  “I cannot,” Servaes said to Jirí, unable to say the words aloud. “I cannot condemn her to this life. I am not worthy of her.”

  “You must do something,” Jirí countered. He looked at Hathor. Her pink lips pursed together in worry, her creamy skin glowing like fresh peaches.

  “Servaes,” Hathor whispered. She crossed to him. His body was rigid as she placed her hand on his arm. “Please, Servaes. Don’t let him take me. Change me. It’s what I want to happen. I want to be with you.”

  Servaes knew he had no choice. As he looked into her eyes, he knew it was what he wanted too. His gaze met Jirí’s as he reached forward to grab Hathor by the neck and pull her forward. His touch was tender. He lowered his mouth. He glanced at her eyes, seeing her gaze as she watched him trustingly from under the sweep of her lashes.

  Hathor nodded at him, opening her mind to him so that he could read all that was inside her. Servaes felt his heart thud in time with hers. Her love was there for him, pure and sweet and innocent. He was afraid if he took her, as he must, he would kill some of that innocence.

  Hathor made a small noise as his lips closed around her throat. His teeth pierced her skin with liquid fire. He drank deeply from her, feeling the life of her body, her soul, as it flowed into him. He stole her mortality into himself. He felt her love all around him. She moaned lightly against his greedy lips and weakly struck at his chest in defense, but Servaes didn’t stop. His eyes closed to Jirí who watched silently from the sidelines. He lowered her down as he drank. Then it was over. Hathor dropped from his arms to land gently on the ground, completely drained.

  Her eyes were closed, and her lungs filled with shallow air. Servaes stared at her sweet face, depleted of color and life. He saw the bloody wound he inflicted on her neck.

  “You must give her life, Servaes. Give her back her blood from your body,” Jirí instructed quietly. Servaes needed no instruction. He knew what he must do.

  Falling to his knees, Servaes bit into his wrist, slashing it open with a violent pull. Blood spilled over him, pouring from the wound in his fattened veins onto Hathor’s face. Her lips moved slowly. He hesitated only once as he pushed his wrist to her mouth. He felt his heart lurch painfully.

  He gave her life back to her—her blood empowered by his own. By small degrees, her strength returned. Her lips sought his wrist. Her eyes shot open, filled crimson with blood. Servaes let her have it, let her take however much she wanted from him.

  “It is enough, Servaes. Do not give too much of yourself or you will be too weak to take her to your coffin.” When Servaes didn’t stop, Jirí rushed forward and pried them apart. Louder, he demanded, “It is enough, Servaes. If you give her everything, you will take in her death. You will die.”

  Servaes fell weakly to the side, not caring if he died. Hathor screeched as an intense pain shot through her body. Her legs flailed toward the ground, striking her feet on the brick. Servaes saw his blood staining her face and trailing in rivulets down her neck. Her eyes rolled back in her head until only the whites showed from under her lashes.

  “What is wrong with her?” Servaes questioned sharply. He glanced at Jirí, too spent to move from the ground. A scream was wrought from her chest, loud and piercing in its agony.

  “She is dying. It happens to us all,” Jirí answered quietly.

  Hathor’s eyes cleared. She looked first at Jirí and then to Servaes on the ground beside her. Her body stiffened with searing anguish, but she didn’t scream again. Her eyes focused on Servaes’ face. She tried to smile for him, tried to hide her pain. He wasn’t fooled. He felt it in her.

  Jirí leaned over, stroking her hair gently from her face as she writhed on the tower roof. She convulsed beneath his hand. Spit traveled from her mouth across her cheek, mixed pink with blood. Jirí was unconcerned. He’d seen the changing before. He pushed his fingernail into his wrist, letting a drop of his blood fall onto her gasping mouth. Her eyes shot open in surprise at the gift. The blood lessened her pain by a small degree. Lightly, he said to her, “Welcome, my brave daughter. If ever you have a need of me, I will hear your call.”

  Jirí stood, finding Servaes lying on the roof. His son’s face was turned up to the stars in torment, his body hardly moved.

  “Hate me no more, my son,” Jirí whispered down to him. Servaes didn’t look at his father. “Harbor me no ill will.”

  The old vampire’s eyes turned from the couple. Jirí walked away, gliding across the rooftop without effort. He heard Hathor’s writhing screams, felt her blood turning. It was not nearly over for her, and he didn’t want to stay and watch. Jirí didn’t look back again as he jumped into the night sky. Within the flash of a shooting star, he was gone.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  The lonely whistling of the wind as it brushed over weathered stones was the only sound intruding over the Bloody Tower’s rooftop, broken by Hathor’s soft whimpers as she tried to fight her pain. The sparkling diamonds in the sky, marred only slightly by city lights, shone down over the couple. Hathor moaned again, tears coming from her eyes as she cried out. Her heart squeezed. Her lungs refused to fill with air until she suffocated. She sensed her limbs tightening with muscles, growing stronger as her insides grew weaker.

  Servaes scrambled to his knees and crawled over to her. She seized with a hard death. Her hands flung wide only to draw into her chest once more. She curled into a ball, fighting the pain, bearing through it.

  A trembling hand pressed against her forehead, stroking it lightly in a gentle caress. When she looked at him, his emotions became clear. He believed her pain was of his doing, and he hated himself for it. Servaes’ name left her lips on a weakened moan.

  Servaes flinched and pressed his hand against his stomach. He jerked as if he might vomit and covered his mouth. His eyes scanned over the surrounding area before he moved away from her. He spasmed again, this time blood spewed out of his mouth, spraying across the rooftop.

  “Jirí?” she heard his mind call out in confusion.

  Hathor tried to reach for him. His pain compacted hers. Her hand found his, and as flesh pressed into dying flesh, a flash of white light surrounded them, thickened by the roaring sound of rushing water. Within a glimmer of time, she was back with him on the docks only to pass forward, sharing every instant of his vampire life in accelerated speed. Some of it passed so quickly she couldn’t remember every detail. Servaes was there too, remembering it. They watched it like a show, feeling the same thing tearing a heated trail through them both, making them moan with the pain of it—an endless flash of faces and places, libraries and old hotels, death and rebirths. When his images finally stopped, she knew she saw everything—every century, every second he had lived since his death.

  Then it was her life that flashed, though more quickly since she hadn’t lived as long. Servaes watched every moment from her birth to her human death beside him now. Through their pain, some memories were lost. But there were no secrets between them. Their minds were joined as completely as their bodies.

  As the last instant faded, they were left weak besi
de each other. The pain slowly drained from their limbs, leaving them spent. Servaes felt like a newborn, weak and untried. Hathor could barely force her limbs to move as she stared blindly at the moon above their heads.

  Her hair and nails grew from the death of her organs. The reddish tresses formed around her face becoming shiny. Her cheeks pulled and thinned against her bones. She felt her stomach tighten before it painfully tugged. She rolled over to the side, lifting herself as she retched next to Servaes’ blood. Her body convulsed and stiffened. She wanted to cry. Her tears would no longer fall. Her eyes stayed dry.

  “Am I dead?” she managed at last. Resting on her hands and knees, her head bowed low. She fell over to the side.

  “Yes,” Servaes answered. Something was not right. He didn’t feel well. But he could perceive her worry and didn’t want to alarm her. With a willpower he didn’t know he possessed, he pushed himself up next to her and gathered her into his arms. Her pale face looked at him, beautiful and drawn. She wanted to hold him, but her body lay still. She contented herself with looking at him.

  “It is done?” she asked, closing her eyes as he lifted her up into his firm embrace. Servaes hooked his arm beneath her legs, carrying her against his chest.

  “Yes, my love, it is done. We are forever,” he murmured against her hair. “Now let us find you rest. You must hunt tomorrow.”

  Hathor nodded. “Stay with me.”

  “Always.” A shiver ran up his spine, even as he said the word. They were still in danger. The council could still come after them both. If it were her fate to die again, then he would die with her. Their destiny was joined.

  Her eyes closed as she fell asleep. Hathor nestled her head into his shoulder, his name a murmur on her delicately parted lips. Servaes lifted her up, their bodies swirling with the moonlight as they drifted together through the dark, abandoned city streets. His arms were drained of energy, his movements not as swift. He pushed on through the night to their bed.