Redeemer of Shadows

by Redeemer Of Shadows(Lit)

  "The young ones are a product of their era, as we are a product of our antiquated times," Servaes answered without passion. "They are what they have been bred to be."

  Jirí laughed. "I knew it was naught to be concerned over. I told the council as much when we spoke. I told them you are my descendent, and of the tribe of Moroi. I knew you wouldn’t betray us."

  "No, Jirí, I will not betray you," Servaes stated darkly. "Nor would I ever betray the others."

  "You are loyal, Servaes. Now, as a friend, what is it you want to ask me?" Jirí inquired. He gave a benevolent glance at the younger vampire’s face.

  "There is more," Servaes admitted, not surprised by Jirí’s insight. He turned his eyes back to the sky.

  "How so?"

  "I cannot read her either, but she can feel me. I entranced her with my mind, and she broke free of it once I had a hold," said Servaes, thinking of that night in the club when she refused him, and then later when they danced and she pulled out of his arms. "I had her bound to my will, and I didn’t slip. Never has my hold been as strong as it was with her."

  "Hm, I heard whispers of this long ago when the land was still divided by countryside. It is rare," admitted Jirí. "Not reading them is one thing. But, as old as you are, not being able to control them, especially after they are in your power is another completely."

  "What does it mean?"

  "Naught mayhap, yet perchance something." Jirí smiled wryly. A hint of longing passed over his eyes. "I’d be jealous of you Marquis, if I could feel such a thing. I should like my existence to again be blessed with mystery. Tell me again, what did you see when I turned you?"

  "A bird."

  "Do you know what it means?" Jirí questioned in wonder.

  "No, I cannot even remember what it looked like. Only that it was a bird." Servaes closed his eyes trying to recall. However, as with many things, time faded the image that once had been so clear. Every vampire was different. When one was turned a vision would appear. None knew what the vision meant. Some thought it a random moment, others believed it to be a weapon of salvation, and yet others thought it to be a thing from the past -- a key to their beginnings.

  "Hm." Jirí raised his hands helplessly. "Unless you figure it out soon, you know what must be done. Hathor cannot be allowed to live as she is. Already her legend grows amongst the young. Soon others will come to overrun London. They will want a chance to taste her."

  "Oui, m’lord," Servaes said, bowing slightly at the waist as he backed away. His respectful smile was of the old way. Decidedly, he vowed, "If she does not join me, I’ll take her mortal life one way or another."

  "Very well, I will inform the council," acknowledged Jirí, before stopping Servaes’ departure with a solemn look. "I’m leaving for the Island of Delos for the great feast. I’ll be gone a human month at least, so long as the Vrykolatios do not over do it like last time. Damned tribe had twenty-five naked humans strapped to the dining table almost every night, their blood full of absinthe and laudanum. I did not come to my senses for a year."

  Servaes quiet laughter joined Jirí’s. "You cannot find those drugs anymore."

  "There are ways," Jirí said with a gentle laugh. Then, shrugging, as if it didn’t matter like so many other things around them, he said, "Today there are other draughts that work just as well when it comes to dulling your senses. But none in my mind compare to tasting emotions -- so sweet, so bitter, so full of life. It is like a surge of renewal if you can find the right one."

  "Travel safe, Jirí." Servaes again bowed. "I will not give you cause to come back to London."

  Jirí again shrugged. "Like I said, one place is as good as another. It matters naught to me. But I will do you one thing, my friend. I will give you the gift of time. I will tell the others that the girl lives. I will tell them to leave you be with her until I arrive back. If I say it, it will be assumed as the will of the tribes. But you must move her from your cave in the rafters. Take her below, to the crypts beneath the church or somewhere else where the others would not find you. And do not think of it, lest your thoughts betray you."

  "Why would you do this?" Servaes asked. "Why do you care to help us?"

  Because I didn’t give you a choice.

  Servaes heard the whisper in his head, Jirí’s lips didn’t move. The vampire’s eyes narrowed in sadness. Servaes knew that Jirí wanted him to go with him to America. It is why he mentioned the festivals. Jirí smiled, knowing Servaes knew and wouldn’t again be joining him. Then, with a leap, Jirí disappeared over the side of the Bloody Tower, fading into the night sky.

  Servaes watched the old vampire disappear before spreading his arms wide to encompass the city. With a jump he fell through the darkness, over the city until he came to the underground tunnels. No humans detected him as he passed. He chose to stay hidden. Even if they were to notice him, it would be as a blur of the vision and they would never known what it was they saw.

  Hathor was asleep when Servaes finally made it back to his tomb. She had moved out of the coffin, curling into a ball on the stone floor. For a moment, he gazed at the pretty lines of her face, peaceful in her rest. Already, he could feel her blood thinning of his, the bond not as strong as before. Soon she would be ready for daylight. The thought troubled him. He selfishly didn’t want to let her go.

  Leaning down, he ran his fingers over her rose tinted cheek. Her complexion was soft and creamy, not at all reminiscent of the blue-like paleness of his lifeless hand against her flesh. Drawing the tips of his fingers just over and between her eyes, he tried to extract her dreams from within. For a second he had the image of a flower surrounded by a bright light. His hand jerked, pulling instinctively away.

  Slowly, her eyes opened. Her lashes fluttered across her velvet cheeks. The blue orbs found his, smiling contentedly at him from their bright depths. With a yawn, she sat up.

  "Where were you?" she mumbled sleepily. Her hand began to reach for him but faltered and fell to the side. His face looked tired as he moved to grab her hand. Lifting it, he placed it to his cheek where she had been meaning to touch him. Closing his eyes, he breathed in the scent of her. She watched him in wonder of his gentleness.

  "We must move," he said at last. His eyes didn’t open. "This place might not be safe enough for you."

  "How --" Hathor began in a panic. Her rounded gaze flew to the entrance.

  "I met with an old friend tonight," Servaes interrupted. With regret, he let her hand go and moved to stand above her. "He will speak with the others tomorrow. He will tell them not to harm you."

  "But I thought you were their leader," she mumbled in confusion. "I saw you controlling them."

  "I am merely the oldest at the club. They look to me to lead them in some matters because my powers are greater. But there are no true leaders amongst us. Everyone must guide themselves, so long as they do not break the sacred laws." Servaes wondered why he revealed so much to her. It only made matters worse for her.

  "And why would they listen to this other? Who is he? What is his name?" Hathor shot, standing quickly to her feet.

  "He is one of the old. He is well respected amongst tribes," Servaes answered. "His name is --"

  "Jirí." Hathor chimed in, finishing the thought. With a look of horror, she shook her head frantically. Begging Servaes with a cry of desperation, she said, "He was there. He said he couldn’t read me and then told the others to kill me. He wants me dead. I don’t think we should trust him. It’s a trap."

  "We have no choice," Servaes said, coming beside her. "If Jirí wished you truly dead, you would be so. He saved your life leaving you with Vincent."

  Hathor shook her head, doubtful. "So where will we move to?"

  Servaes sighed despairingly. "The catacombs, mayhap."

  "Catacombs? As in dead bodies and bones?" Hathor shuddered in disgust. "I would rather not."

  "We could always find a graveyard. I do not frequent them much, but surely there is an uninhabited mausoleum we could hide in,
" Servaes offered. "Although, they are not always the most comfortable of accommodations, and they smell."

  "Does it have to be such a dreadful place? Or could we sleep anywhere so long there was a coffin?"

  "Anywhere," Servaes admitted. "Why? Do you know of a place?"

  "Yes, I just might." A smile spread over her beautiful features. The look pulled at his heart. "How about my house, well, my aunt’s house?"

  "I do not know. Won’t your aunt be leery about having a coffin in her home?" Servaes wondered. "Most mortals are. Once we are asleep we cannot be disturbed."

  "Not at all. She won’t know." Hathor grinned, warming to her idea. "The house is very old, well," she shot him a sheepish look of penitence, "it is older than living mortals."

  Servaes raised an eyebrow at her words.

  "Well, you are rather … aged."

  "Very amusing," he answered dryly, though he couldn’t make his look of feigned annoyance last. Her easy acceptance all of a sudden stirred within him. His eyes took in the curve of her delectable lips.

  "The basement used to be the servant quarters and kitchen. It is all very well maintained, though hardly used except during the tourist season by some of the live-in staff. Right now they are completely empty. I don’t even think anyone has been down there in months, at least not towards the back rooms. You could stay there until the summer." Hathor beamed up into his handsome face. "What do you think?"

  "I think it sounds better than a graveyard," he admitted at last, nodding his head in agreement. "Fair enough, we will try it."

  "Good," Hathor stated, satisfied. She bit her lip thoughtfully. Then, with a gasp at her sudden thought, she said, "Here, watch this."

  She began looking over the ground for a sharp rock. Finding one, she held it up for his inspection, and said, "It is really neat. I jumped out of the bed … coffin earlier and stubbed my toe. Anyway, watch."

  Taking the rock’s edge, she cut into her arm. She winced slightly at the sharp pain, and then held up her arm for his inspection. Servaes smelled her blood, his eyes instantly filling to attention. His stomach lurched. His heart sped slightly. Hathor didn’t notice his discomfort. She waited for the throbbing to stop and the wound to heal itself shut. It didn’t.

  "I don’t understand it," she frowned in frustration. "It did it earlier. The skin closes on its own so fast that you can see it heal. And there is no scar left. It is like it never happened."

  "Have you been up here doing that?" he asked painfully.

  "Ah, I was bored and it was … entertaining," she admitted sheepishly. Hathor’s eyes turned to study him at the sound of his hoarse voice. His eyes were drawing red, his lips snarled to show the tips of his fangs. He was staring intently at her wound. Instantly, she drew her arm away and placed it behind her back. Stuttering, she said, "I’m sorry. Please don’t eat me. I didn’t think it would bother you."

  By slow degrees Servaes’ eyes cleared, his mouth closed. He shut his eyes, as he retorted, "That is why you were so tired as to fall asleep again. Healing takes much out of you. You have expended your energies."

  "Servaes," Hathor mumbled weakly. She looked at him through the scared eyes of a woman who didn’t understand what was happening. Her face paled dramatically, her lips edged with an icy blue. Thin purplish lines began to crawl, pulsing across her face, starting at her hairline and trailing like little rivers across her flesh. She swayed on her feet, stumbling forward towards him. Her eyes rolled back in her head, as he caught her to his chest. "I don’t feel so well."

  "You need my blood," he growled with a dark passion. He lifted her into his arms and carried her to the coffin. Hoisting the lid, he dumped her unceremoniously inside. Her head reeled back, stiffening in pain. Her mouth opened with a gasp, working desperately to stifle a shriek.

  "What?" she began, unable to continue as a wave of anguish crossed over her body. Her hands found the material at her sides, ripping it into shreds as she thrashed about.

  "You used too much of the energy I gave you playing around like that! You need my blood. But if I give it to you now, I will not have the strength to get us to your house. Do you understand?" Servaes looked at the drastically changed pallor of her features, turning a deeper gray under his gaze. Her cheekbones became more prominent under her skin, stretching inward as her body began to cave in on itself. Death was coming to try and claim her. Hastily, he began to shut the lid.

  "Servaes," she gasped, desperate to stop him. When he looked down at her, she gasped, "your trunk."

  Servaes grunted in dismay, grasping the trunk with lightening speed. He placed it at her feet in the coffin before shutting her in. She smiled slightly before convulsing in agony. Her chest lurched forward, her head digging into the satiny cushion. Her mouth parted with a high, piercing scream.

  Servaes felt her limbs agitate violently as he hauled her behind him. He towed the coffin into the tunnel, trying to keep a firm grasp on it as it shivered and shook with the force of her agony. The muffled sounds of her screams reverberated around him, torturing him. He managed to lower her to the floor, awed by the strength of her resistance. Then, as he lifted the coffin up on his arm and grasped it tightly to his shoulder, he tried not to let it fall.

  The sound of her pain tortured his blood to filling with an unusual fire. His body sought to heal that which it had saved as she called out to him. And, with grim determination, he sped faster into the night, hoping he wasn’t too late.

  Chapter Nine

  The hollow shell of night lessened, bearing witness to the travelers as they sought refuge from the threat of day. The moon drew closer to the earth, its pull sending chills of warning through Servaes that he needed to find his rest. Desperation overcame him, a burning need to fight against time as he sped under the weight of his coffin. Hathor slashed and tore beneath the paneling of wood. He heard the satin lining rip with each excruciating tug as she tried to dig herself out of the box. Her short nails pawed and scratched violently at the lid, threatening to open it against his hold.

  Servaes grunted as she kicked viciously at his arm. Her graying fingers slipped out of the side. The thin hands looked almost skeletal as she reached threateningly for him. He knew she was not of her own mind. Hathor’s body was taking over with its primal hunger. The last of his blood was fighting within her. It was a power that none could control. With a heavy force, he pushed her hand back in and readjusted the lid so that she was trapped.

  With solemn relief, he came through the iron gates of Kennington House. Servaes couldn’t notice the silvery moonlit treetops or the gentle glowing of pathway lights that led back to the gardens. His feet raced over the cobblestone drive, up the sweeping arch of front steps.

  With a wave of his hand he unbolted the locked house easily, not needing to touch the old wood. The front door flew open under the direction of his will. Servaes hauled the coffin into the front hall, setting it on the floor as tenderly as he could manage in his haste. Then, opening the lid, he let the wild screams of the woman inside echo in the barren room.

  "Hathor," he soothed, motioning his hand over his shoulder to slam the front door shut. He reached down to touch her thinning corpse hair. Her eyes popped open, ringed completely red with the last of his blood to stare at him from sunken depths. Her blue lips, thin lines which held back from her yellowing teeth, trembled in agony. Ripped satin surrounded the deathlike pallor of her skin and the gaunt skeletal appearance of her once beautiful features.

  At the sound of his soothing voice she calmed from the scream. Hathor gazed at Servaes’ face, listening to his hushed murmurs as he spoke to her in the low words of his native tongue. Her lungs wheezed in horrible pants, loud and raspy, the breaths seeming to seethe, help me. She didn’t move within the coffin, her weakened limbs without muscles beneath the sagging, wrinkled flesh.

  Once he had her attention, Servaes quickly bit his arm, slashing it open with his fangs. He winced at the shot of pain the needlessly deep gash caused. Blood dripped on the white
satin of his coffin, staining the tattered material in little red trails. Hathor’s body smelled the blood, her nose twitched.

  Like a demon possessed, she shot out of the coffin, smashing into Servaes’ body. She landed on top of him with a thud, her thighs straddling his waist to keep him from escaping. Her emaciated fingers clutched his arm, pulling the wound greedily to her lips. Her starving mouth clasped around him, sucking hard at the life-giving nectar of his blood.

  Servaes let out a moan, half in pleasure and part in pain, as she drank against his flesh. Blood streamed over them, staining their shirts. The hot rivulets pulled erotically at his skin, making it tingle. Her lips slid easily against him. She took his offered life into her mouth, lapping and tasting. His eyes closed, his back arched as she endeavored to drain him. Pleasure akin to that of a light orgasm cursed through him.

  "Enough, Hathor," he growled in a weak pant, forcing her mouth away. Her face filled with life, and her eyes glowed with an unearthly beauty. For a moment her lips followed his wound greedily as it healed shut. He grabbed her wrists in his hands and stretched her arms out to the side, stopping her easily with his superior strength. The motion pulled her stained shirt tightly against her breasts. Urgently, he commanded, "Enough. You take too much."

  He watched as her eyes began to clear. The blue slowly moved to dominate the red. She swayed above him, her lips stained crimson with his blood. A red current flowed over the corners of her mouth, down her chin and throat. Suddenly, she leaned over with a mighty groan and pressed her mouth to his.

  Servaes stiffened, taken by surprise. His body was too weak to fight her, not that he wanted to try. Her lips moved against his with a fervent longing. He could taste himself on her, the salty tang of blood sweetened by fear and desire. Her mouth parted, drinking in his moans of delight and matching them with her own.

  Her hips rubbed against his midsection, prompting his member to rise from within the folds of his clothing. Servaes pressed intimately next to her. Keeping hold of her wrists, he turned quickly to roll her onto the hard marble floor. His mouth pulled from her lips only to trail over her throat in dangerous kisses. His tongue licked her flesh, tasting his own essence marking her skin. He brought her pinned wrists above her head, holding her beneath him with one palm. His free hand began to explore her body, gliding over warm fluids with urgency to her perky breasts, ripened with desire.