Redeemer of Shadows

by Redeemer Of Shadows(Lit)

  What if he doesn’t come back? she pondered, growing fearful. What if he changes his mind and leaves me for dead?

  Hathor scolded herself for being foolish. Her hands reached the edge, slipping slightly before she was able to steady herself. Pebbles fell forward to the ground, crashing softly below her in a rumbling shower. Feeling around the side, it was as she thought. There was no escape. Sighing, she lay in the tunnel, staring out into the darkness with the strength of her eyes. She could see nothing in the distance but the faint outlines of abandoned tracks. It wouldn’t be wise to try an escape. Servaes had said that others were in the tunnels.

  Slowly, moving backwards the same way she came, she crawled until she was once more inside. Then, resting her back against the wall, she did the only thing she could. She waited.

  * * * *

  Servaes stalked the London streets, wiping his lips on his hand to pull away any blood that might remain on them. He despised the need for blood that ran rampant through his veins each time he awoke. The bloodlust drove him mad if ignored and tore at him when he must indulge.

  But, just as he hated his desire for it, he couldn’t deny the sweet power of life that flowed through his limbs each time he drank. It was the thick, sweet essence of immortality and he could no longer deny himself it, than a human could refuse the need for air. If denied, the baser need would overtake him until he was a thriving monster with no control over his actions as he sought the nearest source of life. If bad enough, the starved vampire could turn demonic and eat through a small town in the course of an entire night.

  Servaes hated to leave Hathor in his tomb, but he had no choice. He knew the others expected him to give them a performance at the club. His stronger powers of seduction helped to boil the blood of the victims. His only stipulation was that when brought before him, the human he took must have a dark secret -- a sick mind deserving of a harsh death. If he must take life, then he might as well take that which didn’t need living -- murderers, child fornicators, serial rapists. There were always plenty of dark seeds to choose from in the cities. That is why he lived within the crowded settlements. Although at times, he missed the quiet solitude of the country life.

  Servaes made his way to the club, blocking his thoughts of Hathor from his mind. Instantly, he spied Ginger in the room, her arm around a buxom redhead. Ginger’s eyes shot up in amusement, her mouth curling into a catlike grin as a trail of blood made its crimson way down her chin. A pair of fang-marks bore into the large bend of her lover’s breast. Servaes showed nothing but inwardly recoiled in disgust from her.

  His jaw tightened. He hadn’t realized how detestable the Vampire Club really was until he met Hathor. She was pure, so full of light and goodness. He could feel it in her. Although he couldn’t read her past deeds or her thoughts, he knew that what he felt in her was real. It was as real as anything was inside of him.

  As he drifted through the shadows undetected by mesmerized humans, he made his way back to the stage. Already vampire girls were dancing around, drawing attention to their slender, muscular forms. He could smell the passion and lust in the air, permeating like a drug off the human bodies. It was a ruse, this club. It was a game they played to keep themselves from getting bored, put together by some of the younger vampires and attended by very few of the old in times of monotony. Servaes was the only creature well over two centuries that stayed. This gave him a position of power amongst the group, and he wielded his power with sublime distaste and indifference, not caring what happened to his vampire subjects.

  At the club, Servaes had the illusory respect of the younger vampires. He wouldn’t be bothered by them outside the club, and they gave him whatever he desired, often picking his victims for him and bringing them to the stage. They found his penchant for lowlifes an amusing quirk and often prided themselves on obtaining the sickest soul they could find -- like the woman who drowned her children.

  He had approached the vampires of London, having traveled from Africa then Spain. And long before that he had been in Paris, his homeland. Before that still, he covered the world in search for answers he never found. Sometimes the others could sense him, sometimes not and he was sure there were times he was watched without being approached.

  Servaes had given up fighting his instincts, living a somewhat bitter and shallow half existence stimulated by nothing. He stayed at the club because at least there the others surrounded him. However unemotionally, they shared his prison of night.

  Though most of the young vampires were too ignorant and new to know what they lost or at what cost they had given it up. It was only with luck that they thought so highly of themselves to greedily not share the gift with other mortals, lest the world be overrun with the undead.

  But it all stopped the night Hathor stumbled in his life. He wanted her then, called her to him to be with him on stage with a bloodlust so powerful he forgot himself. She refused him. He wanted her blood then, only later wanting to possess her body just as deeply.

  Servaes moved onto the stage, not bothering to come up through the floor. He walked behind the dancers, running his hands idly over their flesh as was expected. Out of spite, he cut his nails into them, watching their flesh heal itself. Their chilled bodies were nothing to him, as dead as cold marble -- beautiful to look at, desolate to hold.

  Seeing a woman brought before him, he closed his eyes to her face. Her flesh quivered, stripped naked by the dancers. Servaes reached to her. Lifting her from the ground without touching her warm flesh, he waited as a murmur of awe rose over the crowd. The woman was held suspended before them, her hazel eyes rounded in shock. He allowed a part of his mind to wrap around her, numbing her brain to fear, mesmerizing her with his charm.

  Then with a keen sharpness his head turned to the back of the room. Standing, mocking him from the shadows was Vincent. The young vampire nodded in acknowledgment as his eyes rounded in gaiety and his lips parted in a mock bite.

  "What is her crime?" one from the crowd called, urged by his vampire lover.

  "She is one of you," Servaes stated darkly, honestly, looking at the condemned man stroking himself hard in desire. Inside, Servaes recoiled in disgust. He hated it all. He hated the demonic eyes watching him in amusement of what he did. He hated the human trash he was forced to feed on each night. He hated himself. He was weary, ever so weary of it all.

  At his bold statement, the vampires laughed, compassionless as they unleashed their fangs. The man who held himself passionate froze as the sexy vixen he was with lowered her head to him. He grabbed her hair roughly, pushing her down on his member. But his moan soon turned to agony as the blazing heat of fangs drove into his skin, sucking hungrily at the artery in his thigh to drain him of his impassioned blood. Soon the frightened cries of those lured to the vampire den joined the man in a crescendo of dying flesh.

  The vampires on stage jumped at the suspended woman held still by Servaes’ power. Servaes instantly let her go. She fell to the floor, taking the temptresses with her.

  "I am done," Servaes announced walking from the stage to never come back. A few glanced at him curiously, their eyes moving up as they continued to drink from their meal. They all wondered at his foul mood, though they had all known that this day would eventually come -- as all things must in an eternity of night. The old vampire didn’t answer their inquiries. Quietly, he walked over littering corpses as they fell onto the floor. He refused to heed the disgust in his chest, unwilling to let the others feel it in him.

  Marquis, Servaes paused to look dispassionately at Vincent’s summons. The man smiled, flashing his bloodied teeth. His lips didn’t move, as he said, Jirí would like a word with you.

  Servaes nodded and shot back nonchalantly, I thought I sensed him about.

  Vincent’s eyes narrowed in surprise. The Marquis didn’t seem too upset that the unreadable girl was dead. Thoughtfully, he shrugged, turning to watch the corpses being pulled from the floor. Bloody undead bastard!

  Servaes heard the
vampire’s silent swearing, as he walked leisurely from the club. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his breeches, strolling down the city street. He watched as moving shadows spilled forth to make their way over London.

  Gaining speed as he moved further away from the club, he wound his way to the Tower Bridge to cross over it undetected. Then, seeing the Tower of London, he smiled ruefully, knowing where to find his friend. He jumped and flew over the old castle structure, over the gatehouse and many towers, until with a brief laugh he stopped below a short square building. Leaping up from the ground to the roof with ease, he landed neatly on his feet.

  Jirí’s back was to him, his hands folded cleverly behind, as he gazed over the surrounding landscape. The flashing lights of the city enveloped them -- blinking and cold. They reflected off the water in various flecks of colors, waving gently over the rippled surface. The artificial glow was so different than that which they remembered.

  "I miss the fire of torches and the sounds of a strong destrier’s hooves pounding into the earthen paths of my homeland. Do you know that they have festivals celebrating how we lived when I was human? They call it Renaissance, a rebirth. I wonder if we should go show them what rebirth really means. I hear the festivals are very popular in the New World." Servaes could see the old vampire’s nails grazing over the backs of his fingers restlessly. Not bothering to turn around, Jirí said in his dark, steady voice, "I knew you wouldst find me, old friend."

  "The Bloody Tower," Servaes mused, crossing over the roof and knowing that is what the tower was called since before his human birth. "You always had an uncanny sense of irony."

  Sniffing the night, Jirí finally turned to face him. The air wheezed from his lungs leisurely. A smile spread across his handsome face. His voice was hoarse with indifference. "Can you not smell it? The old death? Even after centuries the deeds down below this roof still resonate -- some of them older than you, my dear Marquis. And now tourists come to listen to the horror of what was done like it was a play, with no idea of those who lived before. All of them want a piece of the past without the pain. I do not blame them. This new era is tiresome to me. There is no flavor left in the blood. It no longer tastes pure. It has become mixed and weak, like peasant’s soup."

  "I never believed in ghosts," Servaes stated, though he could detect of what his friend spoke. There were sensations all over the old stones, sensations of tears and pain, sensations of seasoned blood corroding in cracks and crevices, forgotten by all, never to be known again.

  "And you did not believe in vampyres until proven wrong," Jirí laughed shortly. "Do you still hate me for it?"

  "No, I do not hate you. In fact I had never even heard of a vampire when you came to me." The answer was honest. Jirí smiled as if to say, I remember. Servaes moved with his old friend to the side of the tower. He too folded his hands behind his back. They stood silently staring over the night -- neither one in a hurry to speak. They lived too long to feel rushed by time. Finally, sighing, Servaes said, "It is too long ago to remember."

  "Ah, but you do remember do you not," Jirí stated softly. "As do we all. Sometimes it is the only thing we can recall from the passing of time. The older you get, the faster life becomes. Worlds slip and change. The humans tear down the past, rebuild it into the future. They rename everything until nothing is recognizable."

  Servaes laughed a hard, sharp laugh and smiled a sad smile. Jirí turned to him, with a stark loneliness older than his own. His eyes moved slowly to the stars, not seeing them anymore as his gaze passed over. His eyes had long ago memorized their endless patterns.

  "And yet, what wouldst we do if we were to turn back into one of them, knowing what we know?" Jirí mused. He waved his hand over the lighted city, over the river Thames. "Our lives wouldst be but a blink, over afore they began. If we were to lose our strength, our powers? Do you think we could survive? We wouldst be as weak as they--only worse, because we know of more."

  "We would have other things," Servaes said, hiding his longing. "Sunlight. Warmth. Love."

  "Love?" Jirí shot questioningly. "Ah yea, love. You are still the romantic aren’t you, my dear Servaes? When I first made you, you rambled on and on about lost love until I almost regretted turning you. I should have thought by now you would have given the dream up. Human emotions were never meant to last more than one lifetime. Most humans can’t make them last the entirety of that one. The only love for us is the love we have for ourselves and the others like us--the love for power and immortality."

  Servaes held quiet. It was an old debate between them.

  "Tell me," Jirí said, "did you find what you sought when you left me? Did the land of the ancients have the answers?"

  Servaes held quiet, still not answering.

  "I told you they would not. Any evidence you sought wouldst have been destroyed long ago or hidden where it would never be uncovered. But you had to look for yourself, did you not?" Jirí laughed. "I almost did not let you go that night you snuck from our chambers in Dublin."

  Servaes turned in surprise.

  "Yea, old friend, I made you what you are. I felt you leaving me afore you even conceived that you would do so, as I feel you now." Jirí chuckled, facing Servaes. Their eyes met and locked. Jirí pulled close, his fingernails stroking over his friend’s unmoving face in a tender caress.

  "Why have you come, Jirí? Have you grown so bored that you would seek me out? I am afraid I have nothing to offer you." Servaes knew there was more his friend wanted. It was the same with all the old souls. They lost connection to the world, searching to fill voids that had no filling. Servaes felt the loss. But he didn’t make others like him to satisfy it. Instead he sought out the young vampires to glean whatever ignorance he could from them. And there were always books. He read his way through most of the world’s immense libraries. "I am as useless as you in this modern age. I do not understand it. When I was alive I thought it such a grand thing to study and invent and learn and discover. Now look where all that science and discovery has gotten us. The world is no better off for it."

  "Sometimes methinks that is why man was never meant to live so long. It is depressing to think of what we have seen. The crimes are the same. Only the tools in which they are done are different." Jirí smirked.

  "It is good to see you again, Jirí," Servaes whispered. When Jirí didn’t answer, Servaes turned to leave. His friend’s voice stopped him.

  "I could taste it on the woman’s lips when I kissed her." Jirí held himself regal, dropping his wisdom like little clues he would unravel in time. "She is special, but she is not what you think her to be. I told you long ago, friend. There is naught that can make you what you were. Not the blood of your food, though she be different than other meals."

  "Could you read her thoughts, then?" Servaes asked. His heart gripped in curiosity for any clue as to why he couldn’t get Hathor out of his system. Jirí felt his uneasiness, though Servaes tried to hide it. "Could you see what was in her?"

  "Yea, I could. There are no secrets sunken in her depths -- no mysterious truths. The mortals do evolve some with the passing of time. She is mayhap one of a new breed of humans, able to block the young ones out. You won’t be able to hide her from them for long. The others will know what you did as soon as her blood thins of yours. You must decide what you will do with her. She will not be allowed to live as she was."

  "I will take her from here. I tire of London."

  "The world is the same, my sweet Marquis de Normant." Jirí shrugged. "But go where you wouldst. Someday, the others will find you, if they do not follow you now. She frightens the young ones because they cannot control her. A frightened child with unlimited power is very formidable indeed, and when those children are banded together in stupidity, it is worse. I wouldst kill them all if I had an inclination. There are too many of them running around."

  "I have no choice then? Have the elders spoken on it? Is that why you are here, Jirí? To keep me in line?" Servaes turned to him. He watc
hed the brown waves trailing about the vampire’s face, his soul shining dully from eyes nearly as old as time itself. He was still incredibly beautiful, though his features and manners were of a very archaic way. "What will you do old friend?"

  "It depends on you, Marquis." Jirí’s eyes shot with a hint of pleasure at their old familiar friendship. Servaes was always one of his favorites, though at times it had been resentfully so. "What will you do with her?"

  "I will tend to it. I will make her my familiar or I will turn her as you did me," Servaes said after a moment’s thought. The admission was reluctant.

  "You will turn one after all these years?" Jirí chuckled merrily. "You have grown tired in your convictions if you will make her your first after so long. Just be sure your blood is not too strong for her, eh."

  Servaes didn’t laugh, turning his face to the stars he barely saw. In the back of his mind, he pictured the endless photographs of clouds and sunsets that he found in the libraries. He was unable to recall what the day looked like on his own.

  "And if she refuses you?" Jirí asked, his humor fading as quickly as it came. "You will give her a choice, will you not? After the decades I had to listen to you whine about never getting a choice."

  "I will ask her, when my blood has cleared from her veins. Her head will be unclouded then." Servaes sighed. He noticed that hours had passed since he left Hathor. The night was halfway over. He wondered if she was scared without him.

  "And how much will you tell her? How much will you show?" inquired Jirí.

  Servaes didn’t answer, not knowing.

  "And if she says nay?" Jirí persisted.

  "Then I will kill her," Servaes stated without passion.

  Jirí nodded in approval. "There was a complaint made, is all, about you putting the Vampire Club in danger by letting a mortal go. Honestly, the elders do not care about a nonsensical club of young ones. The new breed complains too much and does too little. We have discussed killing them all off. But it would break too many of the old codes and cause a war between the tribes."