Hathor opened her mouth to deny the advice when the tinkling of bells interrupted her. Looking up into the corner of the kitchen, she saw the bell to the front door being pulled on its old velvet cord in place of a modern doorbell.
"Are you expecting anyone?" Georgia asked in surprise. She absently wiped her hands on her pants, leaving the plate in the sink. Hathor shook her head, standing to rinse out her cup and place it on the counter. The bell rang again, this time more insistently. Georgia sighed, absently shaking her head. "I wonder who it could be. It’s probably another family of tourists wanting to know if they can picnic on the lawn and take pictures of their rowdy kids by my statues. I swear someday I’m going to post a sign on the front gate. Maybe I’ll get one of those electric things and shock them when they try to get in."
Hathor followed curiously behind her aunt. Georgia slowly unlocked the immense front door, swinging it open. Outside stood a tall gentleman dressed in fine livery. He gave a regal bow, his mouth quirking a bit at the side as he saw the stunned older woman before him.
"Mademoiselle Hathor Vinceti?" the man questioned of Georgia. His thick English accent was as proper as the young man could force it to be.
"I’m Hathor," Hathor said, coming to stand questioningly by her aunt. The women looked at him expectantly.
"Mademoiselle Vinceti." The man bowed politely. Without further explanation, he handed her a folded piece of thick parchment. Then, stepping back, he motioned behind him to an awaiting horse-drawn carriage. With a quick wave of his hand, he motioned to the driver. The driver, an older gentleman with a rounded face and almost square body, lumbered down from the top of the coach. He was also dressed in fine old-fashioned livery.
Hathor held her breath hoping to see Servaes step down from the carriage door. She was disappointed. Instead of Servaes, the man pulled out a long box wrapped with a bright blue ribbon. Carrying it up the front arching stairs, he nodded his head at her.
"Where’d you like this, mademoiselle?" The second man’s voice was much more gruff and unrefined with a hint of a cockney accent. With a start, Hathor recognized him as the bartender at Servaes’ club.
"Ah," Hathor began in confusion. She clutched the stiff parchment in her fingers and glanced helplessly at her aunt.
"Over there gentlemen." Georgia waved them to the formal dining room. "On the table is fine."
Behind the driver the first man emerged from the coach with three more boxes, smaller than the first but tied with the same blue ribbon. Hathor watched in awe, finally managing to ask, as they dropped off their parcels on the table, "What is all this?"
"A small token, my lady," the first man answered with a slight bow, "from his lordship, the Marquis de Normant."
Georgia smiled and quickly thanked the men as they left. As soon as the door was shut, she spun around excitedly to stare at her niece. Hathor gawked after the men in wide-eyed wonder before slowly going to the front window to watch them leave. The sound of horse hooves on cobblestone faded as they turned through the gates to the main roadway.
"Well, girl?" Georgia inquired. "Are you going to open that thing or what?"
Hathor glanced down at the card in her hand. Her fingers shook. She remembered a flash of green over brown eyes, followed by a hesitant memory that was not her own. It was a memory of blood on flesh. As soon as it came, it was gone.
Hathor quivered anew. Her breathing deepened as she fingered the card in her hand. Turning it over as she backed away from the window, she noticed the wax seal stamped on the back. The crest was not one she recognized. Running her finger over it, she glanced in awe at Georgia. With a gulp, she muttered, "I don’t understand it."
"What’s not to understand?" Georgia smiled fondly, excited enough for both of them. She didn’t detect Hathor’s sudden queasiness. "Either you read it or I will."
Taking her fingernail under the dot of wax, Hathor pried it gently from the page so as not to break it. Her heart began to beat with curious excitement. Her fingers continued to shake as she unfolded the missive. The handwriting looked very old, as if done with a quill. The refined scrawl of the cursive lettering was very elegant.
"It’s from him," Hathor whispered, "the actor."
"Well," Georgia prompted impatiently.
Clearing her throat, she read, "Mademoiselle Hathor Vinceti. Tonight you shall live in that other world. The Italian conservatory. Midnight. Servaes."
Georgia squealed and clapped her hands happily. Grabbing her niece’s stiff arm, she dragged her to the formal dining room and deposited her in front of the boxes. With a gulp, Hathor untied the ribbon on the first package. Again, her eyes flashed with the unmistakable image of blood. She jerked back from the package, refusing to open the lid. Wearily, she stared at the box.
"Well?" Georgia asked, mistaking Hathor’s hesitance.
"Here, help me with this," Hathor requested as she tried to pull off the big box lid. She tried to ignore the strange imaginings of her mind. Georgia went to the other side and helped to lift it. She took it up in the air, pulling it from her niece’s trembling fingers.
Hathor gasped in wonder, pushing aside the white crepe paper. Inside was a confection of blue and cream satin and ribbons. Taking the gown by the shoulders, she lifted it with a heavy swoosh. The material was weighty as she held it up for inspection. A tentative smile of pleasure lighted her face. Her eyes shone brightly as she glanced at her aunt. Georgia shook her head in amazement.
"Would you look at that?" Georgia said in awe. "That didn’t come from a cheap costume store."
Hathor studied the gown. In front, the evening dress had three layers of cream embroidery edging the pale blue satin. The first layer fell to the floor, the second pulled the dress into a more form-fitting curve at the knees, and the last was just a bit higher for decoration. The low, square cut neckline was fitted with delicate lace, broadly stretching from shoulder to shoulder and across the squared back. The sleeves were short and puffed with a ribbon tying them down.
If the front was beautiful, the back was absolutely gorgeous. A stiff sash fitted the waist with a silk bow above an open panel in back. Matching embroidered edges lined the sides of the open panel from bow to floor, with row after row of frilled cream lace sweeping out in a short train.
"This is hand stitched," Georgia said, admiring the seams.
"He must have gotten it from one of his acting sets," Hathor mused, trying to fathom how he could have known her size. The dress looked as if it would fit perfectly.
"There’s more," Georgia giggled holding up a corset, a fine linen chemise and some silk stockings, also in the long box. Her eyebrows wiggled suggestively. Hathor blushed.
"I’m sure it’s not like that. They probably came with the costume," Hathor defended.
"Right," Georgia said slowly. She laid the undergarments back in the box. Sarcastically, she muttered, "A man gives a woman undergarments to wear and has no thought of seeing them on her. Sure, Hat, I’ll buy it and whatever else you are trying to sell. Open the others."
Hathor laid the gown down softly. Then, leaning over, she took up a small box. Again tugging off the ribbon, she unwrapped the gift. Inside were two square-toed satin slippers to match the dress. Once more she shook her head in amazement. They, too, looked to be her size. She marveled at how he had done it. True, there had been lights in the garden, but it was still shadowed and dark. In the other box, she found a necklace the deep color of sapphires and matching earrings.
Hathor swallowed visibly. She turned to her aunt and shook her head. Setting the gemstones on the table, she said fearfully, "I can’t do this. It’s insane. He thinks me to be someone I’m not."
"Isn’t that the point of the fantasy?" Georgia asked, not following.
"Oh, Georgie, I mean he must think I am brave or bold or into --" Hathor’s voice cracked stiffly in confusion. "There is something terribly wrong. I can feel it."
"It’s crazy not to go. When a man puts in effort like this, it means he is truly
interested in making you happy. And so what if he wants a little fun with you? You should consider it flattering that he is attracted to you," Georgia put forth sternly. When Hathor frowned, she rushed, "You know what I mean. It’s a compliment. Anyway, you’re going. And you are wearing this beautiful Victorian dress when you do."
"Really," Hathor contemplated weakly. She picked up the card to look for an address. There was none, just the short scripted message. "I’m sure it was no trouble. He is in the acting business. He probably just raided a prop room last night after work and had his friends deliver them to me as a favor. I’d send them back, only I don’t know where he is."
"This doesn’t look as if it came from a prop room."
"It must have," Hathor concluded, unable to believe anything else. The workmanship on the gown was beautiful. It truly did look authentic.
"Are you telling me that his invitation doesn’t intrigue you in the least?" Georgia lifted the lid and placed it over the dress. Hathor sighed, gazing at it in longing. "You don’t have to sleep with him, just go out and have fun. You never just go out. Besides you’ll just be outside in the gardens."
Georgia lifted the box easily and began walking from the dining room.
"Where are you taking that?" Hathor questioned.
"To your room so you can change into it later. I am not going to let you miss an opportunity to have an adventure. Grab the other boxes," Georgia ordered with a stern bark. "I’m going to see if I have something we can put in your hair to match."
"I guess I’m going," Hathor mumbled, a strange sensation curling in her stomach. Moisture came to her eyes as she quietly placed the items back in their boxes. She was very careful not to ruin anything so she could give them back to Servaes later. Licking her lips, she sniffed nervously. Then, forcing her heart to drop out of her throat, she took a deep breath, gathered the boxes in her arms, and followed her aunt upstairs.
* * * *
The night was young, the moon full and low over the lapping waters of the Thames. Servaes watched the outline of his next meal as the elderly man came across the abnormally quiet Tower Bridge. The gentleman smiled to himself, revealing a kindly face and even white teeth. Pushing his glasses up his nose, he paused, taking a deep breath before continuing.
The vampire followed his prey as the man walked from the end of the bridge, down along the shore of the river. Servaes kept from plain sight, but closer than the man could ever detect. Suddenly, the man stopped. Looking around, he cut away from the lonely waters of the cold river.
Servaes knew the man couldn’t see him lingering in the shadows even if he was to look for him there. He briefly closed his vampiric eyes and read the man’s frantic thoughts. Opening his glittering gaze with a sound of disgust, Servaes shot forward. Before the man even knew what happened, teeth gripped fiercely into his neck, piercing his skin with a white-hot blaze. The man gasped and gurgled in surprise, unable to move. His fingers contracted in pain. He stood paralyzed in fear.
Servaes heard the fast paced beating of his victim’s heart, stirring faintly as his own grew louder with the power of the man’s life. His blood-tinted eyes closed in rapturous fulfillment. His lips latched and sucked hungrily at the wounded artery until he could feel his body filling with the fluid that sated his hunger. With a growl, the vampire’s eyes shot open. Servaes unlatched his teeth from the flesh. The man fell to the ground, dying completely within seconds.
Servaes felt his lungs fill with air out of old habit, though he wasn’t really breathless. He licked his teeth clean of the last of the flavorful meal, swallowing it. Warmth flooded through his limbs like a bittersweet harmony of old. It was hard to detest something that fulfilled him so completely. With a wave of disgust, he looked down at his victim. Easily, he bent over and lifted the corpse by the scruff of his neck, gripping him firmly with one hand. He studied the man’s lifeless face indifferently for a moment, turning him to one side and than the other.
In the distance he felt a vampire dumping a body into the river. He ignored the creature, unwilling to let the being know he was also there. Bodies had been piling up in the old river lately. The London police were growing too suspicious of the crimes as they tried to link them together. Servaes made a mental note to speak to the club about being more careful. The young ones were always too eager to bring attention to their kind. And lately, since Hathor’s visit to the club, they had been getting reckless and impulsive. He felt the discontent in them.
"Franklin, you’ve been a bad human, haven’t you?" Servaes whispered darkly to the corpse. The man’s dead jaw slacked open as if he might respond. Servaes’ frown deepened. With a raspy voice and eyes that still glowed demonically, he hushed, "Shall we go get your pretty, little granddaughter out of that closet and back to her worried mother?"
With a slash, he cut the man’s throat open with his fingernail. Servaes laughed in bitter obscurity. The sound twisted and melted silently into the wind. He raised the dead man above his head and tossed him into the river with a splash. What was one more corpse for the police to find? It wasn’t as if the mortals could harm him. It wasn’t as if they could even find him. He would speak to the young ones about their habits later. But, for now, let Franklin be blamed on them.
Dusting his hands in front of him, Servaes didn’t look back. The corpse dipped on the river’s surface, floating away with the current. The taste of blood was still in his mouth, as fine as a wine to his lips. With a slightest movement of his will, the vampire leapt. His body melted from view as it glided through the air with effortless grace, more powerful now that he had taken his supper.
Chapter Four
The soft lights along the ground brightened the cobblestone pathway leading through the quiet flower gardens. It had been a few minutes past midnight when Georgia finally managed to push Hathor from the house, and she only achieved that after poorly veiled threats involving rope and a wheelbarrow. Apparently, her aunt was willing to hog-tie her and cart her out to the conservatory if necessary.
Hathor again hesitated, unable to force herself over the rustic bridge. She looked down at her tightly fitted gown. The blue material complimented her skin perfectly, reflecting out of her stormy blue eyes. The tight corset pulled at her waist to make it narrower than usual and pushed up at her breast to reveal a startling amount of cleavage. No matter how hard she tugged at the satin and lace, she couldn’t get the gown to cover the tops of her exposed breasts.
"How did women ever wear such things everyday?" she wondered quietly. "I feel so naked."
A lock of her hair came loose in the breeze. Deftly, she tucked it behind her ear. Her aunt had insisted on upsweeping her auburn locks and accenting the tresses with two of her antique silver hair clips.
Taking a deep breath, Hathor walked to the edge of the bridge. The blue of moonlight danced at the edge of the shadowed lawn. Wind rustled the gently rolling grasses. Seeing the glass domed top to the conservatory, she again stepped back into the shadows. Nervously, she fingered the teardrop gems in her ears and then the heavy weight of the sapphire necklace dropping from her neck into the valley between her breasts. The cold gems glittered beneath her fingers, tapping rigidly beneath her nails.
"I can’t do this," Hathor muttered at last with a shake of her head. She glanced forward in the darkness, not wanting to admit she was just afraid of what she might find. Already the Marquis de Normant occupied too many of her thoughts. Giving a dispassionate grimace down her gown, she whispered in dejection, "I look like a fool."
* * * *
Servaes watched the anxious creature flutter before him. He was fascinated by her, like a child seeing a rainbow dancing in the clouds for the first time. However, he didn’t go to her as he lingered curiously in the darkened shadows of nearby trees. She had been pacing back and forth over the bridge, arguing with herself for at least half an hour. With a look of determination she would begin to go to the conservatory to meet him, only to change her mind and start to head back to the house. Her
fingers lifted to fidget with the gown he sent her, to needlessly straighten the gloriously shining curls on the top of her head, to adjust and then readjust the jewels at her slender neck.
Her hesitation was quite endearing, more so than her vivid beauty. He watched her long, tapering fingers as they wound together to stop from trembling. His hands wanted to reach out to touch her pale cheek, to see if she would again blush at his attention. Servaes licked his lips in anticipation. He wanted her. He wanted to taste of her. He was determined to make her his own.
The blood of his meal was still thick and salty on his tongue. He could feel the man’s life in his veins. With it there was darkness -- a darkness that tried to consume whatever was left of his human soul. There were the dark deeds and intentions of the man slain, pumping hard, and calling to his own beastly nature. At any moment, the barely contained beast could awaken inside of him. He had learned to hold it at bay. But, it was there -- waiting, biding its time, looking for a way out of its sinister prison.
Servaes’ eyes again strayed to Hathor’s throat, long and straight and smooth, and to the pulse that beat a lulling rhythm in his ears. His lips parted, automatically wanting to taste her flesh, her life’s blood. His teeth begged to bite into the tender skin of her breast, suck leisurely from the rounded globe. He wasn’t just physically hungry for her blood, though it did tempt the hunter within terribly with its sweet smell. His body stirred hungry to possess her.
Hathor was a ravishingly beautiful woman, and she looked so natural in the old fashioned gown. It was not from the era of his human life, but from one of his more favorite times -- before humans advanced in technology and sacrificed grace and charm for fast automobiles and laptop computers.
Servaes watched with a wave of disappointment as she again turned around, refusing to go to him. He wanted her to willingly come into his embrace. He knew that within her depths she desired him, even though she didn’t understand him. When she was near him, he could smell the sugary fragrance of her longing beseeching him for release.
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