Redeemer of Shadows

by Redeemer Of Shadows(Lit)

  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 remarkably 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 bore intensely into her, probing.

  "These are private grounds, sir," Hathor began. She was proud of herself for not letting her voice waver nervously. 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 eye on him. His carved lips didn’t move, though she had the faint impression that he was giving her a quizzical smile. His piercing gaze, bright and sure, watched her adamantly from their darkened, brown depths. For a brief instant she thought they sparkled with green.

  "I can’t read your thoughts, sir," Hathor voiced 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, foreign accent.

  French, mused Hathor with a delighted shiver. 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. Finally, he murmured, "I was thinking the same about you."

  Suddenly, Hathor smiled brilliantly. Her laughter rang out like soft music. The sound took Servaes 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 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 that 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 could feel everything within her, as if she was inside of 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.

  "Would you like to share the jest, ma petite?" he questioned softly. He didn’t come closer, but she felt as if he was right next to her, a hairsbreadth from touching her skin.

  Keeping her smile as the laughter subsided from her lips, Hathor said, "I’m sorry. I don’t mean to laugh at you. It’s just you can tell you’re an actor."

  At that his eyebrow raised slightly.

  "I mean, well, your clothes obviously," she explained waving a hand absently at his attire. 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," he said in his swarthy accent. He felt his bloodlust deepen. Hunger edged his eyes. He forced himself to control it. He didn’t want to scare her.

  "I shouldn’t say it was all your attire. I do have a bit of an unfair advantage. You see, I saw you perform a few nights ago." Suddenly, she blushed and turned her earnest 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, thought Hathor at his continued silence, you hear such praise all the time. What does my opinion matter? You must think me a prude.

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

  Servaes took in her every move. He found himself enjoying just listening to her. Her voice was soft and gentle. It struck a chord within his depths. He liked watching her mouth form the words, not knowing in advance what she was going to say. It had been a long time since he had to stop and listen to a human and most of his kind, for that matter, without already knowing what they would say and do in advance.

  "I have yet to go," he said at last.

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

  Hathor turned, feeling like an idiot. She rolled her eyes heavenward for her foolish prattling and silently berated herself for speaking like a dimwitted fool. 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. And somehow in the midst of his eyes, she forgot who he was and what he did for a living.

  "But, mademoiselle, we have not met," he whispered in French.

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

  "I’m sorry, did you say something?" she stammered in confusion. 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 really speak French. I thought that maybe you were faking the accent." She shrugged sheepishly.

  "Oui, mademoiselle. I speak many languages," he said with a small, proper bow. His parted lips worked slowly.

  She gasped as if something suddenly occurred to her. "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.

  Hathor nodded and held quiet.

  "So unusual to hear that name these days. She is an Egyptian Goddess, no?" Servaes took a step towards her, drawing to the end of 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 charmingly. "Tell me, how did you know that? No one ever knows that. Most people think my parents were drunk when .0they applied for my birth certificate and misspelled Heather."

  At that he shrugged. Not bothering to mind his words, he said, "Some say my second ancestors were Egyptian, others think from India."

  "Second?" she questioned in confusion. She took a step towards him as she spoke. "Oh, do you mean on one of your parent’s sides? Like your mother’s people?"

  Servaes chuckled quietly to himself. He could barely remember his human parents. To think of them now, was near impossible. Not answering directly, he said, "I studied ancient myths fo
r 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 met with refusal or resistance. He waited for her to walk forward, noticing the hesitancy she tried to hide in her steps. As she neared him, his eyes went to her neck. He could hear the rapid beat of her pulse beneath her flushed skin. His eyes fixed on the thin flesh covering her artery -- so strong and protective, yet so easy to pierce. Hunger bit angrily at his stomach. Still, he was reluctant to leave her so soon.

  She 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 women. Men like him always did. Remembering what he was, she stiffened. But, the guard couldn’t last. As soon as he spoke, all reservations again left her.

  "Now it is I who must apologize," he stated smoothly. "I did not tell you my name."

  "Oh, I didn’t think to ask. I just kept thinking of you as Marquis Servaes. Not that I was thinking of you, I mean--"

  He smiled as he thought of his full title. It had been a long time since he used it. In a gentle whisper, he whispered, "Ah, yes. I am Lord Servaes, Marquis de Normant."

  "Right, your stage name. That is what I was trying to say. One of the people at the club told me you went by that." Studying him carefully, she realized her tone dropped into a husky murmur. Her eyes fell to his lips as they again parted. He seemed so near her. His skin was so pale in the moonlight, oddly so, but exquisite nonetheless. He stood so still, like he didn’t even need to breathe. And she was breathless. Beginning to feel the lethargic trance come over her again, she murmured weakly, "Tell me what your real name is."

  Her eyes stayed trained on his mouth. Her pulse beat heavily in her veins. Her blood felt as if it was on fire. Instantly, she thought of him on stage, commanding the room, touching the naked woman bound before him. And he picked her. Or had he? Is that why he was in the garden? Did he come to finish what he wanted to start in the club? Was he angry at being denied?

  "That is my real name," he stated. He could feel her desire flowing in her veins. The scent of it drove him mad. His lips ached to part, to take her throat. His body ached for something rarer in his kind. It ached to take her.

  "So you actually changed your name to Marquis de Normant? You must really love your work to go to such lengths." Hathor blinked, forcing the mist from her mind. She suddenly became uncomfortable. To her, the idea seemed a bit extreme. She hoped he wasn’t an obsessive lunatic.

  "Ah, love is a bit strong. Let us just say I must do it to live. Without my work, as you so cleverly put it, I could not survive." Slowly, he raised his hand as if to touch her face. His finger hovered just over her skin, crossing before her full lips. He could detect the warmth from her heating the coldness of the grave from him. She drew back, almost frightened. Quietly, he added, "My existence is too lonely without the diversion of the club."

  Realizing that they both still stood, she hurriedly sat on the bench. Scooting over, she made sure to leave him room and still give their bodies space. She had seen the look in his eyes as he studied her. He wanted to kiss her, almost as much as she wanted to kiss him. But it was foolish. He was a stranger! A man that touched women on stage every night for money! And it was quite possible, by the looks of the club, that he was a fetish prostitute like the others. He could be diseased. He could be into some weird, kinky, porn cult. Even as her mind protested him, her lips spoke.

  "Yeah, my father was the same way. I, on the other hand, go through spurts." Hathor shivered as he easily sat next to her. His movements were so graceful, liquid, like he glided rather than walked. Turning his full attention to her, he continued to stare at her face. His body neared without appearing to make effort. Her eyes locked with his. For a moment, time stopped. There was danger in his nearness. She could hear the faint pounding of her heart as it beat within her chest. Then, there was a second sound, fainter at first, but it grew steadily. Crazily, she thought she heard his heart beating as well, keeping time to hers. Weakly, she asked, "How old are you, really? I mean you look so young, but you seem very well educated and your eyes -- they look so much older. When were you born?"

  She would have been shocked by the soft confession if she had been given time to think. But his nearness captivated her. Her breathing deepened. His face drew near. Without a will to stop them, her eyes flitted closed. Her head leaned back, offering him her lips.

  "I was born in the year 1657. But in your years, I am forever twenty-six."

  The words were light but unmistakable. When he didn’t kiss her, she managed to open her eyes. Within the depths of his unearthly gaze she saw the color shift from brown to green and then back again.

  "So you are a French marquis from … 1683," she calculated. Servaes nodded. Grinning, Hathor asked coyly, "Shouldn’t you be wearing a powdered wig, cravat and big puffy shorts over tights?" When he frowned, she amended, "Sorry, I majored in antique fashion in college. So is this role-playing what your clients pay you for?"

  "Clients?" he asked.

  Hathor thought that maybe he didn’t understand the English word. Prudently, she said without candor, "You are a working man, are you not? A prostitute? My aunt didn’t try and hire you for me, did she? If she did, I’m sorry."

  His lips curled up in surprise. His eyes shone merrily. Simply, he answered, "No."

  "I’m sorry," she whispered, though he was not offended. "I just thought that you worked at an underground sex club." Her mouth tingled, but she was too scared to lean forward to shorten the distance between them. "Well, monsieur, I wish I could play there with you in your other century. I can see why you wish to escape this time. I’m afraid it is not as glamorous."

  "I play at nothing. I am what I am," he stated with charm and ease.

  Hathor gulped. Her eyes moved to his mouth. He parted his lips, letting her see the tips of his sharp fangs as they edged from under his pale upper lip. He waited for her to scream. To his amazement, she didn’t.

  "Vampire," she whispered in spellbound awe. Veins seemed to grow and form on his skin, but she didn’t notice. They reached for her blood, yearning to be filled.

  "Oui, mademoiselle," he asserted quietly. He wondered why she didn’t run from him in terror. But, as he felt what she felt, there was no fear in her. Only an intense longing she was trying desperately to force back. He could take her, drink from her. She wouldn’t protest. Slowly, his hand lifted. This time he allowed himself to touch her. Hathor gasped. She felt the trail of long fingernails as they grazed caressingly over her. His skin was unusually cold, as he stroked across her cheek to cup her face, and her flesh felt as if it were aflame. "I am a vampire. Are you not scared of me?"

  "I don’t believe in vampires," she whispered. His hand drew her closer to his mouth. Slowly he began to tilt her head back, exposing her neck to his bite. She didn’t resist him, couldn’t think to.

  "Regardless, I exist," he murmured along her throat with a deliberate chuckle. He could never remember enjoying himself so much. His parted lips grazed her as he spoke. He felt her pulse beneath his lips. Closing his eyes in rapturous anticipation, he opened his mouth wide and reached his tongue to taste her flesh.

  Hathor shivered in response. Weakly, she whispered, "Then why do you breathe? I can feel your breath as you speak. You can’t be un-dead."

  With unbearable torture, he refused to bite her. She was too rare to kil
l. He knew that some night he would claim her, but not this night. Her resistance to him was too original. He wanted to learn more. And for once he noticed that the boredom he usually felt left him when he was with her.

  His teeth drew softly against her skin in agonizing slowness, not sinking below the delicate thread of flesh. His body ached with a ravenous hunger. Drawing back, he groaned. Looking into her eyes, he said, "I do not need to breathe to live. I could hold my breath for a century. But I do breathe to talk. It is how the larynx works."

  At that she giggled. "You must have an answer for everything. Well then, Monsieur le Vampire," she whispered copying his accent, "I will leave you to your stage and to your own kind. For certainly there are more of you, I take it?"

  Suddenly, he stood, drawing back from her. His body craved blood. The lust in him became powerful. Without preamble, he stated harshly, "I must go."

  "All right," she said, as nonchalantly as she could muster. Gradually, she stood. Her body shook, her legs were as if constructed of soft clay. His sudden abruptness took her by surprise. Unable to look at him for fear she would throw herself at him and beg him to make a woman of her, she turned.

  Servaes watched her back. He began to leave her. Then, against his better judgment, he said darkly, "Meet me here tomorrow night. Midnight."

  It wasn’t a request. It was a command. Hathor gasped. Spinning around to look at him, she searched the darkness in terror. He was gone. Unbidden, she turned her expression towards the dark sky. Then, laughing at herself for expecting him to be flying in the air, she turned and rushed down the path back into her aunt’s big house.

  * * * *

  "Where have you been, dear? On a date?" Georgia called hopefully to her niece. She stood from the round chair in the front hall and placed her book on the seat, leaving it as she clicked off the light. The long folds of her thick cotton nightgown hovered around her feet as she stepped through trails of moonlight. Seeing Hathor’s flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, she waited.