Redeemer of Shadows

by Redeemer Of Shadows(Lit)

  "No, I wasn’t on a date. I told you I don’t date." Hathor turned her dreamy expression to the window to glance out at the lawn. She searched for Servaes in the darkness. He wasn’t there. She wondered where he had gone.

  "London is no place to be roaming about unescorted at night," Georgia said. "You should really have a beau to take you around, even if you don’t plan on marrying him. I’m too old to go out to all those raving parties."

  "Oh, Georgie, you probably know more about raves than I do." Hathor wrinkled her nose.

  Aunt Georgia was nearly seventy, but she moved with the energy of a woman just hitting the prime of her life. If it hadn’t been for her sudden attack of pneumonia she wouldn’t have asked her niece for help. At least that is what the old woman kept claiming. Hathor had yet to even see her aunt cough, let alone need her help. She knew that truthfully, her aunt was lonely. Being as they were their only family left, she wanted her niece close.

  Mischievously, Hathor added, "I was out walking the grounds. You have this place locked up like a military base. I doubt any harm could come to me here."

  "Well, that’s true. Still, in my day --"

  "-- they still wore powdered wigs and corsets?" Hathor interrupted gleefully, thinking of her ‘vampire’ friend in the garden. Her skin still stung with Servaes’ closeness. His need for her had been very readable in his gaze. He hadn’t tried to hide it from her, unashamed with the animalistic urgings of his body. She shivered anew thinking about it. Undoubtedly in the morning she would scold herself, but for the night she decided she would enjoy it.

  "Mm," Georgia grumbled, trying to feign indignation and failing. She shook her head as her niece teasingly askewed her hair net.

  "I’m going to bed," Hathor announced, leaning over to kiss the old woman’s wrinkled cheek fondly. "If any handsome men come by, feel free to date them yourself."

  Georgia touched the kiss with tender fingers as the young girl sprinted up the rounded marble staircase. Shaking her head, she went to shut off the porch light and latch the giant, paneled front door. Then, slowly making her way through the darkened room, she chuckled softly. She was no fool. She saw the look on her niece’s rosy cheeks. The girl had met someone special. Georgia slowly nodded her head in approval. It was about time.

  * * * *

  "Servaes grows too confident in his place," Ginger growled, looking into the demonic eyes of her companions. Around her, in the sewers, severed human carcasses lay in the tepid waters. The corpses were cleaved in half by a wicked machete still gripped in her blood-stained hands. A head floated near her foot, and she kicked it away as if it were a ball. It bounced off the side of the sewers, making a horrible whacking sound as the bones cracked in the lifeless skull. Apathetically, she looked down at her most recent attempt and cocked her head, studying her handiwork. "Nearly clean through."

  "Here," Lamar growled, stepping forward. The sewer was so dim only the eyes of vampires and rats could see with confidence. "I can do better. Bring the last one forward."

  A woman, who had the misfortune of walking over a street grate at the wrong time, was dragged kicking to stand before Lamar. Her whimpers were ignored, as she pleaded with her unknown assailants through the gag in her mouth. Marred and bleeding from the fresh scrapes she’d received from her recent capture, she couldn’t clearly see the vampires standing before her.

  One of her captors pushed her down with a splash. Her body fell into the crimson sewage water, her fingers lodging into intestines still warm from life. Hands shaking, she jerked back, screaming against her gag. An unforgiving hand pushed her forward once more. This time her hand found the stone of the sewer bottom. Wearily, she braced herself and began to weep. Through the dimness, her round eyes stared in horror as they adjusted enough to see her blood-soaked captors. A flash of bloody flesh weaved into the thin stream of moonlight from above.

  Lamar waved the two vampires back as he took the machete in his hands. The red fluids made it slide between his fingers. With a sigh, he wiped at the blade to get a better grip. Already growing bored with their game, he said, "Servaes is one of the old. What can we do? I have no wish to fight him."

  The captive woman’s eyes grew round as she saw the deadly blade glinting in the moonlight. She couldn’t see the man holding the blade, but she could hear his bored voice, and she could hear the slight movements of a crowd gathered, as if watching her. Quivering in terror, her body released itself into the sewage water. She didn’t care.

  "If we band together," Ginger began.

  The woman whimpered louder. Her body propelled into action, she began to push to her feet. The vampires didn’t move to stop her.

  With a heavy sigh, Ginger growled, "Take your swing, Lamar! Her cries give me a headache."

  Lamar lifted his arm. Bracing his feet in the water, he swung. For a moment the whistling of the blade was the only sound beyond the woman’s gagged scream. Then, with a thud and a tear, the deadly weaponry found its mark. The woman was silenced. Her body fell into the water. Lamar jerked the knife back and moved to look at his achievement. Other’s came forward to survey the corpse as well. The blade had ripped her in half, from shoulder to genitals.

  "Ah," Lamar said with a beginning of a smile. "Clean through."

  Ginger frowned. Tearing the blade from the vampire’s fingers, her hiss ended his pleasure, "It doesn’t count. You went through the shoulder not the skull. I win this round Lamar."

  "Argh!" Lamar growled. "Then bring me another! And be quick!"

  Ginger laughed, but denied his command. Stopping those who would gather another victim with a wave of her hand, she said, "No, leave it for now. I grow weary of this game. Let us play another."

  "What did you have in mind?" Lamar asked.

  "Burn this mess," Ginger ordered to those gathered. Taking Lamar by the arm, she led him forward. "Come, Lamar, I will show you."

  Chapter Three

  Morning brought with it a gentle breeze, stirring the vines of ivy that wound through the long white trellis. The vines twisted up the side of Kennington House, trimmed back before growing along the large expanse of balcony outside Hathor’s bedroom. Multi-paned glass fitted into the narrow squares of the French doors. The doors were painted white, blending neatly with the stone look of the siding. The balcony was one of the few later additions to the house, nestled in the back just above the gardens, but completely out of view from the front.

  Inside the room Hathor sighed in whimsical contentment, having dreamt peacefully of the man she met in the garden. True, Servaes was unusual, but who wasn’t strange these days? And she had to admit, the soft lull of his accented words, the fine cut of his antique clothing, the smooth way in which he watched her from peculiar eyes, they all made her tremble with nervousness and longing. He was graceful, just like her aunt’s house that she loved so much. He was a man from the past, caught in a modern world. He had manners and style, elegance and knowledge. And part of her wished she could get trapped in the past with him.

  In her dreams it had been so. They strolled in the warm sunlight, surrounded by flowers and trees. He had touched her face gently with a warm caressing hand, handing her a flower for her hair. Lifting her fingers, Hathor touched her cheek and sighed. Last night his fingers had carried a deep chill with them.

  He is probably cold-blooded, she thought, not completely convinced of it. And last night was cool.

  The only blight in her dream-like impression was the performance on stage. She was reluctant to get involved with an actor. Already, she knew his lifestyle was more liberal than her tame existence had been. Yet, part of her -- a small part she refused to lay voice to -- was intrigued by it all.

  "Well, he’s certainly not a vampire," she giggled aloud. Sitting up in the plush Victorian style bed, she pushed the soft coverlet off of her legs. She felt a chill run over her spine. Her smile faded. The room was warm.

  Stretching her arms over her head, she suppressed a yawn. Not bothering to change from her sweatpan
ts and T-shirt, she crossed over the thickly padded carpet to the balcony. Glancing outside, she decided not to open the doors. Then, spinning around on her heels, Hathor couldn’t help but grin. She felt like dancing.

  Running with bare feet to her door, she happily ignored the adjoining chamber leading to her private dressing room fitted with an oversized wardrobe and exquisite vanity. Above stairs there was nothing but rows of bedrooms. All just as lush and glamorous as hers, but none other adjoined by a balcony. She made her way down the long hall, fitted with brilliant woodwork and small tables with vases overflowing with fake flowers. Hathor knew that in the summer her aunt would have the maids cut fresh flowers to replace the silk ones when they had guests.

  Coming to the rounded sweep of marble stairs, she skipped down to the main entry hall, built originally to impress and doing so still. Its bright, marble floors swirled with patterns of white and cream, looking fresh and cheery. Victorian wallpaper, soft and muted, accented some of the walls, but mostly there was the elaborate dark carvings of the rose patterned woodwork.

  Halfway down, Hathor stopped. Regally lifting her head in the air, she placed her fingers lightly on the wooden banister. Stepping agilely on her bare feet, she nodded graciously to pretend gentlemen below, bestowing her most gracious of smiles on the rounded chairs fitted in the middle of the hall.

  "I use to do that very same thing when I first moved in here." Georgia watched with a fond smile from the entryway to the dining room. Her smooth voice still carried traces of a gentle southern accent from America. She watched as Hathor grinned. Continuing to wave, her niece nodded her head regally in her direction.

  With a huge smile she stopped at the bottom of the stairs. "You can’t enter a room such as this without imagining a grand ball with wide hoopskirts and lavish masks."

  "That is why I think you should stay. With your help I could hold such events again. The rich pay dearly to be involved in such glamorous affairs. And, with your talent for dated costuming, you could be a great asset. I’d bet we’d even capture more of the foreign market." Georgia watched Hathor’s buoyant steps as she crossed over the hall.

  "You won’t give up will you?" she inquired lovingly. "I don’t want you to take care of me."

  "And what else are you going to do, Hat? Go back to the states? What is waiting there for you?" the older woman admonished with a firm set to her graying brows. Her wrinkled face pulled up with a soft smile. "You belong here, with me. So what if I take care of you a bit? I have no children to spoil. It will be good to have you here to run the place, see if you like it. You know when I’m gone I plan to leave it to you."

  "Don’t talk like that," Hathor said, not liking the idea of losing Georgia. She let her aunt lead her to the large dining room, with its majestic oak table large enough to sit two dozen people easily. Again the woodwork was dark and elegant and vases lined the smooth top at intervals. Running her fingers over the high-backed chairs as she passed, Hathor managed a smile.

  "I do suppose that I would like to see the ball, though it won’t be the same as actually having been there. You know, what we could do is hold a different time period every year and send out carded invitations. I’ll bet if you figured it out right, you could even book grand parties for all those Hollywood movie stars. They would drop enough money on this place in one night to cover the house upkeep for a year." Hathor eyes glittered with excitement. She looked hopefully at her aunt.

  "I should like it if they would. Then, we could close the bed and breakfast part. I only keep it open because I love this house too much, and it is the only way to pay for the preservation." Georgia chuckled. "I warned you that once you got here the house would get into your blood. Never did I dream when I married that British son-of-a-bitch, I would end up in a place like this."

  Hathor was not shocked by her mild-mannered aunt’s reference to her late husband. Uncle Charles had been quite the bastard. Though charming, he was a philanderer. He gambled and drank himself into the grave. Georgia dropped the Kennington name after he died, changing back to her maiden name of Vinceti. In fact, whenever Charles was mentioned her aunt deemed it necessary to follow his name with an obscenity.

  "So where were you last night?" Georgia asked, smoothly changing the subject.

  "I told you. I was in the gardens." Hathor blushed and couldn’t meet her aunt’s eyes.

  "With who?" Georgia questioned, with easy perception. "I didn’t see a car leave the drive last night."

  "Oh." Hathor’s blush deepened in color. She shrugged delicately. "Just this actor guy I kind of met the other night when I got lost and didn’t meet you at the café. I think he might have been trespassing a bit. I told him to leave."

  "Not after spending a little time with him I’ll warrant." Georgia’s eyebrows wiggled suggestively. She let go of Hathor’s arm and walked in front of her into a small kitchen. The kitchen was also a new renovation to the house, having been constructed as a preparation area for the staff. The original kitchen and servant’s quarters were in the basement. It was too inconvenient for the catering staff to trample up so many stairs every time they needed to reload a tray. "Is this the same actor you said entranced you?"

  Georgia motioned Hathor to sit at the small table they used for personal dining. Then, pouring a cup of coffee for her niece in a fine piece of china, she set it on the table. When the young girl blushed and didn’t answer her, she said, "So what’s this fella like?"

  "He’s different." Hathor hesitated.

  "They all are, honey," her aunt drawled. Helping herself to a cup, she placed a breakfast pastry in front of Hathor on a plate of matching china. Sitting across from her, she smirked knowingly. "This is Europe. There are no other such men in the world as you will find right here in London."

  "He’s French, I think," she began, taking a sip of coffee. Then, with a slight moan, she confessed in a pained whisper, "and he is so incredibly handsome."

  "I detect a problem in your tone." Georgia leaned forward, placing her polyester covered arms on the table. She studied the girl in front of her, patiently waiting for her to speak.

  Sighing, Hathor mumbled, "I don’t know if it’s a problem, per se, but he dresses like he is from the turn of the century -- and I don’t mean the last one either. He does this performance…."

  "Performance?" Georgia inquired when the girl floundered. An interested smile tried to curl over her features.

  "He acts like a vampire. There is this whole stage show with dancing vampires and fangs and a naked woman tied to a stone ledge to be punished." A weakened sound escaped Hathor’s throat. "It is all very strange and sexual."

  Georgia clapped her hands in delight. A grin spread over her face, as she declared, "How avant-garde! I should like to see such a show. Maybe we should go tonight. You can, ah, talk to him after and congratulate him on his performance."

  Hathor thought of her aunt, with her pink polyester pants and white silk blouse under her pink polyester jacket, her cotton ball hairdo and reading glasses, trying to watch the stage.

  And if not the stage, Hathor thought in something akin to amused horror, then definitely the aroused crowd.

  "I don’t know," Hathor said carefully. She didn’t want to hurt the old woman’s feelings. "I don’t think I’m going to see him again. Last night he told me he was from 1683. I think he might be a bit delusional or in the very least obsessive."

  "Aren’t we all? So what if he says that. Is he charming?" Georgia paused until she received a reluctant nod. "You say he is handsome, and by the look on your face last night I can tell that he makes your pulse race. I think you should go see him again. It is not like you are getting married and bearing him children. Go have fun and find out what those sixteen-hundred type men are all about."

  "He asked, well more like commanded I meet him at midnight in the gardens. But I doubt I’ll go." Hathor sighed, staring at her untouched pastry. With a gulp, she finished her cup of coffee.

  "Coward," Georgia said. She gazed lovi
ngly to soften the word.

  "So?" Hathor frowned. Ignoring the food, she stood to pour herself another cup. When she offered some to her aunt the old woman shook her head in denial and lifted her hand over her cup’s edge.

  "Let me give you some advice, dear. Life is very short -- too short not to enjoy. Take whatever this man can give you, one night -- two. If it is what you want, do it. I made the mistake of expecting too much. Before I married your Uncle Charles, the foolhardy bastard, I was in love with this wild cowboy who worked for your grandpa on his ranch. One night I had the chance to be with him. But, being the prude that women were expected to be those days, I denied us both. I always regretted it."

  "You never told me about this," Hathor breathed in wonder. She slowly came back to her seat, staring at Georgia in awe. "What happened to him?"

  "He died in a stampede the very next day. The following year I married your good-for-nothing uncle. Every night when I lay in his bed I would think of that cowboy, wishing I had taken the chance and gone with him." Georgia let loose a wistful sigh. "What I’m saying is follow your heart, and when that fails you go with your gut -- or the place slightly below it." The last was said with an unapologetic smirk.

  Hathor gasped and had to turn away. "Really, Georgie!"

  "What?" Her eyebrows shot up to mock her niece’s shocked expression. Then, winking, she said, "Just be safe and protected about it."

  "Wait a minute," Hathor said, giving Georgia an unabashed grimace. "A year before you married Uncle Charles, Grandpa didn’t have the ranch. He sold it when father was about twelve, making you what? Fourteen?"

  Georgia giggled and shrugged. Standing, she took the untouched plate and put the pastry back in the box. Over her shoulder, she said, "It could have happened. Anyhow, my message is the same. Get out there, live a bit. Take it from an old woman, life is too short not to live it up."