"Why have you put me here?" she said, trying to sound brave and failing.
"What better prison, m’lady?" he asked easily, as if nothing at all mattered to him. The glittering lessened in his gaze, but his grip held tight. "What better shackles than these dead hands?"
"Let me go!"
Jirí chuckled. The shaking movement of his gaiety shook all the way down his body, vibrating through her. She could feel the cold grave of him soaking into her skin. It radiated from his handsome body. Had Servaes’ touch been so unfeeling, so deadly chilled?
"I admire your bravery. You will need it," he said truthfully. His eyes began to close. "Now sleep. The day is young, and we have no place to be but here."
"Where are you taking me? What will you do with me?" Her voice shook.
Jirí let loose an audible sigh, his eyes opening up to stare at her. For a long moment he studied her, seeing her face clearly in the darkness. He could smell Servaes’ possession of her, just like the others. And, with no little amazement, he could read what they had done together in her bedchamber, saw every detail.
"I know who you are, Jirí," she said at last. "I know what you did to him. I saw."
"You mean he told you," Jirí mused.
"No. I mean I saw it, you heartless bastard," she spat. "I saw you kill him. I saw everything!"
"Oh, in that you are mistaken, m’lady," Jirí said quietly. His words became soft, as he leaned forward to whisper into her ear. "The heart is the one thing I have that works."
He took her hand and placed it over his chest. She could feel the steady beat beneath her fingers. Hathor stiffened at the intimate revealing. Gasping, she tried to pull away. With a dark chuckle, he wouldn’t let her.
"I saw you kill him," she repeated boldly. Again, she tried to jerk her hand away. Again, he wouldn’t let her go. "You made him what he is, Jirí. I want you to turn him back! I want you to make him human!"
At that declaration, Jirí chuckled merrily. He didn’t let go of her hand, his grave-cold fingers soaking in some of her mortal warmth. He could smell the alluring scent of her blood, sweet and nearly pure. He had known her purity that first night he kissed her, just as now he could tell it was gone, taken by Servaes.
"I gave him a new life," Jirí stated, unashamed. "But I cannot give the old one back to him. Are you so sure he wouldst want his mortality back? Do you think to know him better than I, his father? I made him. He is my son, my benighted child. After everything he has seen, after how long he has lived, do you think he wouldst give it up for you? Are you sure that what you seek is not purely done in selfishness?"
"Then make me like him," she ordered. She angled her neck to his mouth, pressing it forward to his whispering lips. She hated his words. She hated him for making her hear them. Demanding loudly, she said, "Make me like you. Change me as you did him. Do it!"
"Nay, m’lady," Jirí’s voice was cold with finality. "I will not wrong him again. Your changing will not be my doing."
Hathor drew back. She narrowed her eyes, trying to see his face in the darkness. She couldn’t. Angrily, she pulled her fist away from his heart to strike him. He grabbed her back easily. She struggled once more to no avail, trying to shake free as she screamed, "But I saw you. You plotted against him, putting him on the boat to die. I saw you on the docks, cocky and sure of yourself. You took him without giving him a chance. And now you will turn me. I demand that you do so!"
Suddenly, a cold whisper from the past echoed around them, Hathor, Hathor, Don’t leave me.
They both recognized it as long ago cry of a sick man in the belly of a sea-going ship. Jirí’s self-assurance wavered at the sound. Hathor’s wry look glared defiantly at him.
"It was you he called for," Jirí stated in wonderment. "But how? In another life mayhap?"
"No, in this one." Hathor relaxed, no longer fighting against him. It was a battle she couldn’t win. "Don’t ask me how. But I was there less than a week ago. I fell in love with the human he was. I was there the night you tricked him into the king’s mistress’ quarters. I was there on the boat and the American docks. I saw everything, Jirí."
Jirí closed his eyes, thinking back with the help of the fresh memories in her head. Opening them, he stated, "I saw you in the king’s garden. I looked right at you. I never suspected. Methought you were a foolishly smitten noblewoman."
"So will you bring me to him?" she asked, cautiously. "Please."
"No," he answered. "I will not bring you to him. But you just might see him again. I have a feeling he will come for you."
"Are you going to hurt him?"
Jirí studied her for a long moment, feeling her heart beat frantically in her chest. He saw the tears lining her eyes. Not tears for herself, but selfless tears for the vampire she loved. He could feel the sweetness of the emotion flowing through every drop of her being. The emotion called to Servaes in anguish, its true purity a rare thing in humans.
Lifting his hand, Jirí passed his fingers slowly over her eyes. Murmuring softly, he ordered, "Sleep."
Hathor’s head fell limp. Her lips parted in even breath, her mind dark with dreamless slumber. Jirí watched her for a moment, wondering at the emotion inside his blood. It was respect for her, of that he was sure. But, beyond his admiration, there was more--jealousy, longing, despair. Jirí closed his eyes, not finding his rest as easily as she.
The renewed image of the docks, seen through her eyes, haunted him. He had wronged Servaes all those centuries ago. He had been different then, a lord who was used to taking what he wanted, and this woman before him truly loved his benighted son. But could he help them? Could he risk defying the council for them? Could he deny every loyalty he had? Mournfully, Jirí shook his head and closed his eyes. No matter how much he wished it, no matter his regrets, he knew he couldn’t. The council’s bidding would be done.
Chapter Eighteen
Jirí awoke Hathor at dusk. He leaned over her face, stroking her cheek lightly as he stared at her. Then, as her eyes fluttered open, he pulled her roughly by the arm. She flew up into the air from the coffin to her feet in surprise. Her head swam dizzily as she glanced around a fancy hotel suite. Her knees buckled only to be caught up by Jirí’s persistence. She hardly had time to notice the lavish furniture or the full-sized stocked bar, as the old vampire whisked her around to face him. His hand stayed possessively firm on her arm.
"Glad to see you awake, m’lady," he smirked. He studied her intently, his cold gaze traveling over her slender form, from her wide sleep-adjusting eyes to the trembling of her legs barely able to support her weight. His hunger gnawed at his stomach, demanding he eat. He ignored it for the moment.
"I can do it myself," she grumped. She tried to snatch her arm away. He let her go. She stumbled before righting herself. Jirí chuckled.
"Did you rest?" he asked at length.
"You know I did. You keep making me pass out." Hathor realized he was toying with her. She saw the amusement in his features as he watched her.
Jirí’s dark laughter grew louder. It strung across the room, filling it. He raised his hand. She grimaced.
"Do I have to tell you to stay here, m’lady? Or do you wish to be bound?" he inquired smoothly. He lowered his hand to the side before walking away from her. "I should hate to leave you tied to the bed whilst I am away."
"Where are you going?" she questioned nervously. When his eyebrow rose slightly in amusement, she hastened, "I’ll be fine here."
"I could force you back to sleep," he offered. When he smiled at her, his face lit with a heartrending handsomeness. Its charm was lost on Hathor. She thought only of Servaes. "If you think you might be tempted to run --"
"No, I’ll stay here," Hathor broke in. She knew it would be pointless for her to try and hide. Her only hope was that Servaes would sense her first and come rescue her.
"Yea, m’lady," Jirí whispered, convinced that she wouldn’t endeavor to escape. "It wouldst be very pointless for you to try."
Hathor blushed but attempted to look peeved for his constant invasion into her thoughts. Throwing back his head, Jirí laughed heartily. Delightedly, he allowed, "I have been called worse."
The vampire strolled to the hotel’s balcony, a smile lining his mysterious lips. His hands threaded leisurely behind his back, and he motioned his head for the door to slide open. The door obeyed, and the cool night breeze ruffled Jirí’s clothing. Spinning deliberately on his heels, he moved to look at her once more.
"Order some food if you like. But tell no one --" Jirí began.
"Who would believe me, m’lord?" Hathor quipped, a wry span to her countenance. "The bellhop? Should I tell him that I am kidnapped by vampires and ask him to wait here so that he can defend my honor against you? And if you think me foolish enough to believe I could run and hide from all of you, you can’t read minds very well. Tell me, where should I go? A church? I am sure it would do no good."
"Quite true," he answered, unconcerned. Though, he did hide a smile at her quick sarcastic wit.
For a moment, Hathor saw his eyes soften. She realized suddenly that he was giving her a small chance. He was leaving her alone to see if Servaes would come and get her. Jirí’s mouth curled slightly as she stared at him. Hathor gulped at the unexpected kindness and looked to the floor in confusion.
Quietly, Jirí stated, "I will be back. Do what you will, but do not leave this room."
"Why…" Hathor nodded. But when she glanced up to look at him, he was gone. Weakly, she finished, "…would you help me?"
With a heavy sigh, she turned to look around the mauve colored suite. The beauty of the rich carpets and high ceilings was lost on her. Going to the window, she could see the Thames, a long bridge, the expanse of London. She knew that out there on the city streets were millions of people with no idea what really went on in the city at night. She used to be one of them, and part of her wished she could be so again.
"But then I wouldn’t have Servaes," she mumbled to herself. Despite her desperate state, she felt a smile tug at her heart. If she never saw him again, that one night with him would have been worth it. Everything -- the journey into the past, the pain of death, the pain of losing him -- would be worth it. For that memory would be with her.
"You love him."
Hathor stiffened before whirling to the side. The night breeze clung to her skin, whipping at her stained T-shirt. Her heart pounded fearfully, though she knew she should have been getting used to such quick intrusions into her solitude. It seemed the entire vampire race had forgotten how to knock.
Before her, hidden by the folds of a dark green cloak, stood a creature -- one she was sure never to have met. Immediately, she stumbled back from him, recoiling from the power he had over her. She couldn’t see his face beneath the hood of his cloak as it fell forward, but she could feel him watching her, reading her. He was old -- older than Servaes, perhaps even older than Jirí. She could sense it.
"Yea, child," the creature mumbled. His voice cracked wearily as if he hardly used it, the accent was old and worn. A thin hand reached forward, the skin sunken to show the structure of the creature’s bones. An old ring graced the pinkie of his finger, glittering with a beautiful emerald, slipping around from the lack of cushioning skin. He compelled Hathor to take his hand in hers. She did, unable to stop herself, though she tried. Slowly, the being pulled her forward and she could feel him studying her, smelling her. "I am older than both."
"How is it you and Jirí can read me when no one else can?" she asked. Trembling, her mind was her own, but her body was under his control. She continued, "Who are you? What do you want?"
The pale hand held firmly to hers, though the grasp of it was light. He lifted his other arm to stroke his fingers over her soft cheek. They were like an ice cube to her trembling skin. As he leaned forward, Hathor perceived a glimpse of tinted orbs set deep within the sockets of his sunken eyes. Moonlight filtered briefly over the face of a skeleton with sunken flesh. She knew that, like all of the vampires, he would be handsome once his old face filled with life. But there was something else to him. The creature was more self-possessed than the others were. As if he held more power than they did.
"Hope," he answered darkly, at last. "I desire hope."
"Hope?" she questioned, utterly confused, completely enthralled.
The enigmatic stranger pulled her into his chest with his will. His arm stretched out, holding her still like the beginning of an intimate dance. A steady, thin hand wound about her waist, the other pulled to the side. The long folds of his cloak wrapped around her, enveloping her in a sensual caress until she could feel the bony length of him pressed into her. She could smell the must of grave on him, the potent fragrance of decay and aged death. She perceived the muscles of his chest, recessed ever so slightly beneath his tunic shirt. His heartbeat was weak. His head leaned down to brush over her neck with thin, pulled lips. Lightly, he whispered, "Forgive me, child. Forgive me. I must drink."
Hathor felt his mouth lowering down to her skin, devoid of warm breath. She felt the brush of fangs. Her mind screamed at him to stop, but her mouth couldn’t move. Her limbs climbed up to encircle his neck, holding still once she returned the skeletal embrace, unable to fight him, almost feeling eager. His teeth pierced her flesh. She could feel them inside of her, but his biting kiss didn’t hurt as the others had. There was pleasure in it, pure, mind-reeling satisfaction. Her eyes closed in her head as she moaned lightly. Her weakened body collapsed completely against him, complacent to his will.
The vampire drank deeply from her, sating his hunger, reclaiming much of his flesh at the taste of her. Then, pulling away, he studied her still face along his shoulder. She had fallen asleep in his arms. His eyes closed, his revived chin resting near her temple. He held her in his cloaked arms. Shaking his head, he murmured into her hair, "Forgive me, child. Forgive me."
* * * *
Servaes searched through the night for his old friend. Jirí’s scent couldn’t be detected on the wind, but Servaes knew it was quite possible that he was already gone. If Jirí chose to disappear, there would be no way of finding him.
He fed once at dusk, because he had to. It was a woman who slipped drugs to school children, getting them hooked young before they knew what they were doing. The awful taste of humanity stung his tongue. He hated it. The one thing of worth that he found in all his years was Hathor. He wouldn’t take that one blessing away from the human world. He wouldn’t change the one thing decent he’d found in his eternal hell, no matter how much he wanted to be with her -- that was, if he was ever given the chance to see her again.
He opened his heart and his mind, trying to listen for her. He couldn’t detect her. With hope in his chest, he went to Kennington House, to the gardens. He walked along the path at a human’s pace, reaching out with his feelings for her. She was not there. But someone else was.
"Are you looking for Hathor?"
Servaes turned. The voice was old, but not his old -- human old. His eyes met with the kind eyes of an elderly woman. She gave him a compassionate smile, unafraid. Her sad eyes blinked heavily.
"You are Servaes, are you not?" the woman inquired. She hugged a pink silk robe around her waist. On her feet were fluffy pink slippers. "I saw you walking around. I hoped it was Hathor."
"Then she is not here?" he asked politely.
"No," the woman said. "She went looking for you. I had hoped she found you."
"Me? How do you know it is I she was searching for?"
"You’re Servaes are you not? Her vampire?" the woman questioned. Her eyes traveled over his old clothing meaningfully. Servaes nodded, surprised by the woman’s easy acceptance. "I knew you were. I could tell the minute I looked at you."
As Servaes studied her, he could see faint traces of Hathor in the woman’s features. Smiling kindly, he said, "You must be her aunt, Georgie. She has told me of you."
"Come inside, boy." The old woman inclined her head, turning around on the pathway. Sh
e began to walk, not stopping to see if he listened.
Servaes chuckled, amused at having been called like a child. He easily glided to her, taking up her arm. He could sense the pain in her movements.
"Allow me," he said.
"Oh!" Georgia gasped as Servaes flitted across the lawn to deposit her on the front step of her house. She shook her head in wonder, trying to catch her breath. Frowning a bit, she said, "You young people, always in a hurry."
"I am older than you." Servaes chuckled wryly in amusement.
"Oh, yeah?" Georgia returned airily. Wiggling a creased finger, she answered, "Talk to me when you have wrinkles, vampire. You may have lived many years, but you are still a kid compared to me. Now, come in out of the dark night. I don’t suppose you can catch your death, but I sure can."
Servaes followed her easily inside. He lifted his hand, shutting the door without touching it. Georgia shook her head with a sigh.
"I was praying you were Hathor. I’ve been worried about her. Have you seen her?" Georgia asked hopefully. When she saw the look on his pale face, she frowned. "No, I suppose not. Tell me, do you know? Has something happened?"
"Mayhap. I believe one of my kind has taken her," Servaes said.
Georgia nodded, appreciating the candid honesty. She patted her hands nervously together. Bluntly, she questioned, "Do you love her?"
Servaes studied the woman carefully. He didn’t know how to answer.
"You do. I can feel it in you," she stated, her eyes flashing with secrets. "Well, I’d offer you some coffee, but I don’t think you’d like it."
Servaes nodded. He continued to stare at her, fixed between amazement and awe. Georgia ignored his rude silence.
"Hathor did say you were a handsome boy," Georgia admitted in a matter-of-fact tone. "I see she was right. You’ll find her, won’t you? You’ll take care of her?"
"I will send her away where no one will hurt her. If she comes here, I want you to tell her to go back to America. It is for the best if she leaves London immediately." Servaes’ voice was quiet, his lips hardly moved.
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