The moisture didn’t dry in her eyes as she carried him though the front hall, passing the dining room and kitchen, down the basement stairwell. The entire time, his heart beat against her back, a reminder of everything she wanted and could never have.
Her feet stumbled wearily in their journey. Part of her sensed the sun’s nearness. Her skin prickled in warning, feeling much like a sunburn. Falling to the side, she pushed her back and Servaes into the wall by the door. Then, moving to turn the knob, she threw open the door, dragged him inside, and hauled him into his bed. Stumbling now that she was free from his weight, Hathor moved to close the door. Her heart beating wearily, she sank down next to him, closing their bodies away from the death that would come with the sunlight.
* * * *
Servaes’ body twitched and writhed in torment. His heart quickened, his lungs stopped, his skin pulled tightly to his flesh. He was dying. He could feel it. Inside, his organs shut down one by one.
The pain lasted an eternity, a second. His slender frame slowly filled out. The muscles weakened from his travels grew strong once more, bulging against his skin as every ounce of fat melted from him. As the organs died, his hair and nails grew long from the demise. With a terrified gasp, his eyes opened, and he felt the first stab of fangs against his trembling bottom lip. His own blood dripped saltily into his opened mouth from whence the fangs poked.
Jirí stood over him, a devilish grin curled on his delighted features. "Painful, eh?"
Servaes’ answer came in a shortened gasp. His eyes turned in his head to the ocean. He could see every detail in the waves, could hear every distinct sound of each splashing droplet. He thought he saw the clear outline of a fish swimming near the surface. Weak and disoriented, Servaes again looked at Jirí.
"What have you done?" Servaes gasped laboriously, his voice a raspy growl. Shouting in outrage, he spat in a voice that was no longer his own, "What have you done to me?!"
"I have given you life," Jirí answered simply, "and death."
"What am I?" Servaes tried to stand. His limbs trembled like a newborn colt’s. His lips curled into a demented snarl.
"You are now of the tribe of Moroi. You are chosen. I have baptized you with my blood," Jirí obliged. "No one will ever hurt you. You will never be sick, you will never die. You are immortal. Now, you truly do have everything, Marquis. I have given you the gift of the world."
Servaes stayed on his back, too weary to move. If he was dreaming, he willed himself to wake up. But the numbing pain in his limbs was too fresh, his keen vision too new. Everything was very real. The ocean crashed, ringing insistently against the birth of a migraine forming in his brain. He tried to block it out. His vision blurred and cleared. He was disorientated, his senses enhanced but uncontrollable.
"I didn’t ask for this gift," grunted Servaes, sounding as if demons worked in his throat. His body stiffened, and he screamed again in torment as another piece of him perished.
"Neither did I," stated Jirí. "We do not choose the dark gift, it chooses us. I chose you, and together we will live forever."
"You have condemned me to hell, you fiend!" shouted Servaes. His eyes glared accusingly. Suddenly, his voice grew like the rumbling of thunder. "I can feel that you have, you damnable demon!"
"Get up. We must get you to bed afore the dawn," Jirí stated. He ignored Servaes’ heated words, showing no emotional attachment to the accusation. The vampire stood straight, turning his back to the man on the ground.
Servaes obeyed, but not because he wanted to find a bed. He wanted to strangle his demon. He rolled slowly to his hands and knees, stopping to rest as he looked at the ground to gather his strength.
Jirí didn’t lean over to help him, waiting instead for him to stumble to unsteady feet on his own. When Servaes stood, Jirí said, "And we are not demons. We are called vampyres, if you must have a name for it."
All of a sudden, a white light entered Servaes’ eyes, his head tilted back on his shoulders, his body lifted up into the air. As if far away, swirling closer, he saw the image of a bird, a strange drawing on stone. Just as quickly, the image faded, and he fell back to the ground.
"Remember it," Jirí ordered. "Now, come."
Again standing, Servaes swayed violently like a drunkard. His mind wrapped around the image he had seen, not knowing what it meant. He thought of it until it burned into his mind. He thought of it because he could think of nothing else.
"Your legs will steady. Do not worry," Jirí said, strolling ahead of his new child at a leisurely pace. Servaes faltered behind him, limping and dragging his feet like the abomination he knew he had become. Jirí nodded his head at a passing sailor. The man paid the two nobles no mind as he quickly hauled a willing woman to his boat.
"Why the dawn?" Servaes asked, not taking in a thing around him but the gentle thuds of Jirí’s boots as he followed the creature. His eyes fixed on the heels, as they pushed up from the dirty ground. Seeing every detail of the motion, his senses steadied and his body began to calm. Throatily, he asked, "What happens at dawn?"
"Dawn is the one thing that can kill you friend," came the gentle response. Jirí’s movements became tender, almost as sensual as a lover’s would have been at that moment. Yet there was no desire in his embrace as he pulled his arm about Servaes’ shoulders. Stroking his long nails over Servaes’ ever-paling face, Jirí caressed him like a new toy. Tenderly, he said, "You must always enter your grave afore dawn. It is the only curse of the undead."
As Servaes heard the words, he knew they were a lie. Already he could feel a darker power coursing through his veins, a beginning of a hunger so deep that it wrapped his mind and took complete control. His gums ached. His teeth worked in agitation wanting to bite.
"Do not worry about that feeling, my friend, you will learn to control it so it does not control you," Jirí said. "You cannot feed tonight. Your body is not ready. But, tomorrow at dusk, I will let you end your torment. Besides, what is one night of agony compared to an eternity of pleasures?"
Servaes was powerless against Jirí’s will as the man led him through the darkened streets of the small colonial town. His steps were slow and staggered. Jirí didn’t seem to mind. Servaes’ eyes stared out like those of a waking corpse.
"There is a lot of work to tend to, my son. We will spend a few nights here before moving up the coast. I should like to taste this Indian blood of the Americas soon. It has me very curious." Jirí spoke as if they discussed the weather or a simple boyhood jaunt across a strange land. "We will need a servant, I think. What thinks you of Samuel? He is a bit coarse, but an obedient lad. And I have the feeling his family will be meeting with an accident soon."
Servaes grunted, having no idea of what Jirí spoke of. His eyes rolled in his head.
"Oui, Marquis. Methinks Samuel will do nicely. Besides, when you get them younger they can serve you longer. It is such a bother to bind a new human into service, they never last too long." Jirí continued to chat idly, glad for company after being alone so long.
Servaes said nothing, trailing next to the strange demon that led him through the darkened streets. His guts twitched with a sudden rage. Falling to the ground, he puked all the food from his body.
Jirí stood, waiting for him to finish as if nothing was amiss. Then, as Servaes once more stood, he handed him a handkerchief. They again began to walk. The old vampire kept talking of things that had no meaning to the dying man at his side. And, in the boarding room of some building, he stuffed Servaes into a coarse pine box to meet with his first day of eternal rest.
* * * *
Servaes opened his eyes with a jerk. Inhaling, his senses detected the day. He froze, waiting to burst into flames. The fire never came. All around him was darkness. Instantly his eyes found the top of his casket, the white comfortable satin much different than the coarse pine of his first bed. His body throbbed oddly from the strange dream, the physical pain no longer affecting him but in faint memory. So much of his beginnings he
had forgotten.
Feeling the caress of soft breath next to his skin, he looked over to Hathor. Her worn body rested in slumber. Her thick lashes fanned over her rosy cheeks. With a light, feminine sigh she nestled closer to him, seeking warmth where there was none.
His arms urged him to hold her. His body was too weakened to try. He could feel his energies were drained, his blood thinned and cold. Showing the past to Hathor had taken much out of him. It was not as it should have been. It shouldn’t have been so real. But it was. By the feeling of day that surrounded him outside the coffin, it had almost killed him, but for Hathor.
Servaes closed his eyes, unable to deny himself the rest he needed. Hathor moaned slightly, her fingers absently curling into the front of his shirt above his heart. She sighed in contentment when she found its beating. He fell back to sleep, pondering how Hathor could have gotten him into his coffin without his knowledge. And, for the undead life of him, he couldn’t understand why she would have bothered.
* * * *
Hathor slowly opened her eyes. She yawned delicately, noticing that Servaes was still by her side. Feeling him in the darkness, she lightly ran her fingers over his face. His eyes were closed. His body was unmoving, just as it had been when she arranged his limbs comfortably next to her.
Stretching her fingers, she felt that most of Servaes’ power was out of her. Her limbs no longer felt as strong, her body a bit weaker than before. She felt as if she’d just broken a terrible fever --weak but joyously no longer ill. The dark tomb of their bed started to close in on her. She pushed away from him.
Reaching her hand to the side of the coffin, she watched his face for any sign of movement or pain. Lifting the lid, the room was completely void of sunlight. A light that she had left on in the hall gave her enough to see by. Watching Servaes’ face, it didn’t move. She reached her hand out of the coffin to test her reaction to the day. When she felt the same, she quietly crawled out.
Servaes still didn’t move. She shut the lid quickly, not wanting to hurt him. As she did so, she didn’t see the silent brown eyes watching her from within the dimness. Servaes didn’t lift a hand to stop her. He again closed his eyes to sleep.
Hathor made her way up the stairs, stopping as she looked at a ray of sunlight crossing over her path. With a deep breath, she reached her hand out to touch the light with the tip of her finger. Fearfully, she jolted back. When she realized the sun didn’t hurt, and she was not on fire, she grew emboldened. Again she tested the light. The warmth of the sun hit her palm, caressing her with its easy kiss. She smiled, relieved that she was once again herself.
She glanced at a clock as she jogged up the stairs, seeing that it was already noon. Yawning, she scratched her belly underneath her T-shirt. With a frown, she noticed the spot of blood on the edge. She scraped at it absently as she walked.
Suddenly, she froze. Footsteps sounded steadily overhead. Gulping, Hathor held her breath. Little by little, she tried to make her way silently through the formal dining room to the front hall. The hall was empty. Her heart began to pound in fear, the organ jumping in her throat. She wondered if the other vampires sent their human cohorts to come after her during the day when Servaes couldn’t save her.
With a ragged breath, she edged her way to the door. Her bared feet slid over the cold marble tiles as she moved. Again she heard a noise. Hathor jumped running for the large front door. Her fingers grasped at the handle about to throw it open.
"Miss Hathor? That you, deary?"
Hathor sighed in overwhelming relief. Gulping, she turned. Looking up, she saw Mrs. Quaken, her aunt’s housekeeper. She let go of the front door.
"Are you just getting home, love?" the elderly woman asked with a smile. Her round face shone with curiosity, though not accusingly so. Her spherical hairdo was a darker shade of her aunt’s style -- round and puffy. Over her slender body she wore the old style dress of a maid’s uniform.
"Ah, yeah. Yes, I am. I’m sorry. I meant to leave you a note that I would be gone," Hathor lied. She absently counted the days in her head. Yes, it was Tuesday, the day for the housekeeper to be there. That meant the cleaning crew would be all over the top two floors. Suddenly, she thought of the mess she left in the hall and the bloodied shirt on the bathroom floor.
"Have you been here long?" asked Hathor carefully. She tried to act nonchalant as she climbed the stairs.
"Just got here about an hour ago. I had some trouble with some of the staff and was only able to bring a couple of the girls with me," the woman answered. As Hathor drew nearer, she could see the worried lines on the housekeeper’s face that she was trying to hide. "I must admit, I was a bit alarmed when I came up here to start directing the girls."
Hathor looked down the hall. She could see the drawn faces of two women in matching black and gray uniforms. One was dark, with skin the color of mocha, the other a blonde woman with freckles spanning across her taut face. They hung back as Hathor stepped forward. Thinking quickly, Hathor exclaimed, "Oh, my goodness. The house must look a mess!"
The two maids nodded, their pony-tailed hair shaking vigorously in confirmation. Mrs. Quaken stepped forward to Hathor as if to see if she was indeed not murdered as they first suspected.
"I tried to get home in time to pick up. You didn’t call my aunt did you? I wouldn’t want her to worry about me." Hathor waited while Mrs. Quaken shook her head in denial. "Oh, good, she has so much on her mind. I know how bad it must look."
Hathor managed a smile. She leaned easily against the railing. Her eyes darted to the floor where she and Servaes had lain during their dreamy journey. Hurriedly, she looked for blood. There was none.
"So you are all right then, love?" Mrs. Quaken inquired. Her tone grew probing, her green eyes begged Hathor to explain.
Hathor turned her gaze downward, hoping they wouldn’t detect her lie. Looking up at them from underneath her lashes, she said, "You see, my boyfriend is in the theatre -- very new age, avant-garde stuff. Well, last night one of the actresses quit right before they were to begin, and I was compelled to fill in for her. To make a long story short, this machine that they use to pump red dye that looks and feels like blood went haywire. The thing spurted blood-like gunk all over my new white linen shirt."
"I see," Mrs. Quaken put forth nodding her head gently at the strange explanation.
"Everyone was upset, and it ruined the whole production," continued Hathor, her lies coming easier as she got going. "So, to smooth things over with the manager of the club, we agreed to do a late night performance for free at this other club he owns. I asked one of the girls to drive me home. I took a fast shower and changed, leaving that awful looking shirt on the bathroom floor. And then, in our rush to get out the door, this same girl knocks over that vase. In truth I think she was drinking when I was in the shower because I saw a flask fall out of her purse later."
"Well, that is quite something," Mrs. Quaken said smartly. She nodded her head. "But, it does make sense."
"I am just sorry that I didn’t remember to leave a note in my haste. I should hate to think what you thought was going on! I mean to find the house a mess, with a bloody shirt on the bathroom floor and no one around!" Hathor shook her head in mock horror. Mrs. Quaken’s nodding turned solemn. Hathor smiled at her, relieved that she so readily believed her.
"Yes, it was quite disconcerting. Though I do confess, I didn’t find the shirt. But, this vase … I was very close to calling the Bobbies," Mrs. Quaken announced, thinking of London’s police. "But, it is explained and over with now. Come girls, we have work we must tend to."
Well, it could have happened, Hathor thought with only a bit of guilt. Besides, it is more believable than the fact I was bitten by a vampire and saved by another who is asleep in the basement. But please leave the sweet creature alone. I love him and would hate to find a stake in his heart when I go to wake him up. Oh, and by the way, would any of you like to be his supper tonight?
Hathor tried to hide her sarcastic l
augh as the words filtered through her head. Mrs. Quaken turned, ordering the two girls about like a gentle drill sergeant. Hathor made her way past them to the bathroom.
"Miss Hathor?"
Hathor wearily pasted another smile to her lips as she turned.
"Would you like me to try and bleach out your shirt?" the housekeeper inquired.
"No, thank you. I’ll tend to it later. You have enough work to do." Hathor sighed with relief as the woman disappeared into one of the guest chambers, a basket of cleaning supplies clutched firmly in her hands.
Hiding herself in the bathroom, Hathor sunk to the floor. She buried her face in her hands. The red shirt lay where she left it, beyond repair. With a small, weary sound of defeat, she grabbed it up.
"What am I to do now?" she whispered in despair. No one answered.
* * * *
Servaes knew the moment Hathor awoke. Her breath had caught in her throat. His body lurched as she ran her fingers over his face in a tenderly searching caress. He longed to open his mouth to bite the sweet flesh of her wrist. He wanted to press kisses up her arm, make love to her in the confines of his coffin where she wouldn’t be able to escape.
In disappointment, he watched her leave him. Her beautiful oval face searched him for signs of pain as she opened the lid. And when she closed him in, he caught a brief glimpse of her slender form as she turned away.
Servaes let her go, not trying to stop her. He couldn’t chase her through the day if she ran. She was a creature of the daylight, her mortality restored to her. She could again walk in the sun, free of his limitations.
Come the night he would be able to find her. Hathor would never be able to escape him. It was too late for that. He needed her. He wanted her. She was his and, for better or worse, she would remain as such. Closing his eyes, he ignored the pain and the guilt that consumed his chest and possessed his soul, as he fell back into a dreamless sleep.
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