"You will have to kill," he stated, knowing he was losing the battle against her. Her face stiffened in determination.
"I will find another way. Or I will do like you, feeding off those who deserve death." Hathor grabbed her bra, threading it on underneath his shirt. She stared at his naked chest, trying not to feel longing when she looked at him. Then, for good measure, she added, "Besides, with as much blood as I’ve been forced to swallow lately, I’m starting to develop a taste for it."
Servaes frowned.
"Maybe someday we will find a cure," she said, getting her bra hooked and unthreading her arms.
"There is no cure," he asserted angrily. He rushed for her, taking her brusquely by the arms. Lifting her up into the air, his voice contorted to the sound of thundering demons. "Do you not understand? There is only death. You do not know what you ask for."
"Put me down," Hathor insisted calmly through clenched teeth. Her lips set in a hard line. Then, smirking coldly, she spat, "You had best find your rest, lover. Even I can feel the approaching sun."
Servaes dropped her, knowing she was right. Hathor fell to the ground, tumbling to her knees with a gasp of pain. Turning her head to him, she watched him as she stood. A battle of the wills lit in their eyes, neither one daring to back down.
"Get in," he commanded. The coffin lid slammed open with a single gesture. The casket vibrated at the livid movement. "I will take you back to your aunt at dusk. She is worried about you. From there you will leave London -- forever."
"I’ll sleep on the floor," she lied, knowing he couldn’t sense it. She rubbed her sore knee gingerly as she glared at him. "If I were to lie next to you now I might try to shove a stake through your hateful chest."
"So be it," he growled, relieved that he wouldn’t have to suffer the torture of her nearness. The coffin lid crashed shut with a reverberating thud. Servaes was gone. Hathor walked over to the coffin. She stared down at it for several minutes, feeling his returned glare from within. Then, after enough time had passed to make sure the sun was over the horizon, she tapped the lid lightly with her nails. She felt him refusing to reach up to her.
Hathor smiled, putting on her socks and shoes. Keeping his black shirt, she tied the material at her waist as she went to the door. Opening it up, she saw the gentle stream of sunlight filtering in from overhead.
See you later, lover, she directed at him with a snarl in her thoughts.
Hathor! His voice returned in iron-fisted warning. She heard his knuckles crash with the lid of his coffin. She slammed the chamber door behind her. Damn you Hathor! Get back here!
* * * *
The day passed in a blur. Hathor walked the streets of London, stopping about midmorning to call her aunt. Georgia came to pick her up, eyeing her niece’s solemn expression with concern. Hathor managed to get the whole story out on the ride home, skipping the part where she and Servaes had made love in front of the fire.
"So what are you going to do?" Georgia asked. She smiled kindly, walking with a newfound energy around the car to the house. She wrapped a tender arm around her young niece, helping her inside.
Hathor let her aunt help her. She would have had to be a blind fool not to see the healthy glow on her aunt’s face. She wondered at it, but didn’t ask. Wearily, she answered, "What I said I would do. I will find someone else to turn me. Maybe the one I was telling you about, Jirí."
"Is that a good idea? I thought he wanted to kill you," Georgia said with concern. "Won’t Servaes be mad?"
"Damn Servaes and his anger," Hathor spat, too tired to see straight. "He doesn’t know what is good for him or else I would already be like him."
"He only denies you because he loves you Hathor," Georgia said logically. She could taste the truth of it in the blood he gave her. Servaes was tormented by the idea of making Hathor’s existence a bleak and cursed life, as his had been thus far.
Georgia found it quite admirable of him to sacrifice his own happiness for what he thought would be best for Hathor. Just as she knew her niece would never give up until she was dead or immortal with him. She knew Hathor only wanted to be with her vampire. She could see the truth of it in every whispered confession.
Turning to the stairs, Hathor climbed them one by one. Her shoulders slumped in dejection. Her head hung down towards the floor. Mumbling, she said, "I’m going to bed. I can’t think straight right now."
"All right, dear," Georgia said quietly. Without having to be asked, she said, "I’ll wake you up before nightfall."
Chapter Twenty
The cold stare of greenish hazel looked up into the darkness. The gaze gave away nothing as Jirí lifted his hand to press the coffin’s lid up from his face. To his surprise, he noticed the soft glowing of a lamp on the black satin lid. He frowned, sitting up in a gentle glide to look around the room.
"Good morning, Jirí," Hathor stated. She watched him from the big plush chair. Her stormy gaze was as cold as his was as she watched him. She ran her fingertips over the edge of her nails lazily, as if she had been there all day waiting for him to wake up. "Or should I say, good evening?"
"M’lady," Jirí nodded, curious as to why she was there.
Hathor looked at him, studying him. Jirí could smell Servaes’ recent touch on her and could detect her human heartbeat. He wondered what she was doing in his chamber. Quietly, he came out of his coffin, moving to stand up before her.
Hathor stood. She walked over to him, calm and sure. Staring him in the eye, she said, "You must be hungry."
Jirí smiled a wickedly entrancing grin. Hathor brushed her hair back over her shoulder. She presented her neck to him. He held back. He knew what she wanted him to do. He could sense it.
"Where is Servaes?" he questioned, ignoring her offer.
Hathor shrugged, but otherwise gave no indication that she heard him. Pointedly, she stated, "You know why I’m here. Get on with it."
"Do I?" he asked, his smile widening.
"I want you to turn me," she forced bluntly. "You know Servaes won’t do it. But it’s what I want -- to be with him. Servaes is too noble to do it. He thinks he will damn my soul to hell or some such nonsense. But he is wrong. I have seen his soul, and it is not in any hell, unless you count the hell of his own making. He is my salvation and I his. But you don’t have any qualms about giving the dark gift, do you Jirí? I saw you turn Servaes without a moment’s regret. You enjoyed it. You enjoyed the power of it. So do me this favor. Drink, Jirí, and turn me. What is it to you anyway?"
"I do not change women," he stated simply, his smile never wavering. He could feel her troubled heart and deep love. He was sorry for it. He was sorry that Servaes hadn’t taken her. It was clear that she was willing -- willing enough to chance death in finding him again.
"Make an exception," she countered. "I don’t expect you to take care of me after. And I’ll owe you one."
"How did you find me, m’lady?" he wondered aloud. He knew that if he wanted he could search the answer out in her mind. But he found talking to her too entertaining. He waited instead to see what she said on her own.
"It is quite the interesting balcony. I merely found the bridge, turned north and here I am. Though I will admit it was quite the climb up. Luckily, someone found me and let me through. I told them that I was in love with the man in this room and was going to propose to him tonight."
"Quite the cunning liar." Jirí laughed. Hathor saw approval in his eyes.
"I don’t usually lie. But I had to. I am left with no choice. So won’t you get on with it?" Hathor once again turned her neck to his mouth and waited. "The sooner, the better for both of us."
"I know you do not lie often," he stated by way of casual conversation. He brushed past her to sit on the couch.
"Come on," Hathor went to step in front of him. She grew impatient. "Hurry before Servaes tries to find me and stop me."
"Nay, m’lady, I will not change you," Jirí’s words were smooth. "It is not for me to do so."
"Then what will you do with me? I know you’re not going to let me go." Hathor sighed, walking back to her chair. She fell back into the cushioned seat and looked at him, openly disheartened by his refusal. Although, she was hardly surprised by it.
"I have been ordered to bring you back to the tribal council if Servaes didn’t change you afore I got to you. You are not changed, so I will take you." Jirí waved his hand. "So even if I had a desire to change you, I cannot."
"That simple, eh?"
"Yea," Jirí assented, "that simple."
"Is it going to hurt?" she asked, before clarifying. "What the council is going to do to me, will it hurt?"
Jirí shrugged. "I will do my best to block any pain from you. You must open your mind to let me do so. I will make it as if you were not even there."
Hathor studied his cold face until with no small amazement she realized that he was hiding a wealth of compassion in his savage depths. His eyes narrowed carefully.
"You have someone, don’t you?" she asked in wonderment. "Someone like me."
Jirí’s eyes flashed with discomfort. He didn’t answer.
"I love Servaes," she put forth.
"I can feel that you do."
"Then, help me. Help us," Hathor begged. "Take me to him. Tell him that there is no other way because the council is going kill me. Tell him that you can read me and that I do want to be with him. Tell him I’m not confused. Tell him you can feel it. You can too, can’t you? You know I speak the truth."
"I am to bring you to the council," he said darkly. Then, scratching behind his ear, he sighed. "Oh, very well, I will let you say goodbye to him if he will come. But you have to wait here this time. No running off. As soon as I feed I will come back for you."
Jirí stood, walking over to the balcony door. He pulled it open with his will. He was about to leave when her words stopped him.
"I didn’t run off," Hathor stated with a frown. "Someone took me to him."
Jirí glanced at her, trying to read whom. He saw a vague impression in her mind, but couldn’t tell who it was. It was someone old, of that he was sure. Was the council checking up on him? Did one of the other tribal leaders have an interest in her? Or was it someone else, an old vampire who knew her secret? Without answering her, he turned and fell into the night sky, traveling with the wind in search of food. The questions inside him still lingered.
* * * *
Hathor clung to the side of the Bloody Tower’s rooftop. Chills traveled through her body, making her nervous and excited at the same time. She watched the night sky. It was spectacular, dazzlingly beautiful from the taller height. Her eyes looked past the sparkling stars, searching for Servaes. Then, finding a shooting star in his stead, she turned her attention back to Jirí. He was only too happy to pass the time telling her the horrible stories of what happened beneath the square stone rooftop.
"In the sixteenth century King Edward V and his younger brother the Duke of York were both murdered at the tender age of about thirteen. I still remember it. One was smothered with a pillow. The other stabbed. It was quite the scandal of the day," spoke Jirí. "For a time the bodies were buried in the basement under a pile of rubble. Then they were moved over there, by the White Tower, though the graves were forgotten for nearly a hundred years."
Hathor followed Jirí’s finger, shivering at the idea.
"Is there a reason why you are telling me this?" she questioned sharply. "Or are you just bored and feeling chatty?"
"I only want you to understand what you are asking for. I see you tremble for those boys who died so long ago. It turns your stomach to think on it, does it not?" Jirí smiled. She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. "That is why I do not change women. They lack the strength to last the centuries. And, more oft than not, they are the ones to go mad. Methinks it is because of the instinct of motherhood in them. Women are softer than men are. They are meant to love and give life. Men naturally take it. Men are warriors, women are mothers."
"That is the most antiquated --" Hathor began.
"I am antiquated," Jirí chuckled. "But I am still right. Inherently, women are the fairer sex. And, in being such, they are not made for killing. And --"
"And should be protected from such things," finished Hathor with a small smirk. It might have been an old notion, but it was still a nice one in theory.
"Yea, and protected," he admitted ruefully.
"Then why would you bring me to the council?" she asked. She shot him an intelligent smile. "Shouldn’t you protect me, a woman?"
"It is not the same. It is my duty to bring you. I should not even have brought you here," he stated coolly, unaffected by her charge.
"Then why did you?" Servaes asked, appearing from the darkness.
"I wondered when you were going to show yourself, friend." Jirí’s back was to Servaes as he looked out over the city. He didn’t turn to him.
"I could little refuse your invite, father," he asserted indifferently. Jirí was not fooled by his tone. "What kind of son would I be?"
Hathor gasped as he took a quick look at her. She rushed forward only to stop when she saw the hard set of his jaw. Frowning, she grimaced, "You’re still angry, aren’t you?"
Servaes glared at her, silencing her for the moment. He refused to acknowledge her otherwise. Hathor held back. Turning once more to Jirí, Servaes asked, "Why have you brought her to me?"
"Methought you might like to bid her farewell afore I deliver her into the hands of the elders. They wish to feast on her. I daresay, though, with all your blood in her they might want to wait a few months," Jirí chuckled quietly. He was enjoying himself. "Perchance, it is because I have grown soft in my old age."
Servaes snorted in disbelief.
Do you want me to take her now? Jirí shot to his friend when Servaes didn’t answer. Hathor watched, frightened. She couldn’t hear him.
"I thought I had a month," Servaes said, not answering Jirí’s thoughts.
"Ah, that." Jirí nodded wisely. He waved his hand over the night before placing it once more behind his back. "The council has spoken. If she is alive and human they want her. They all want a taste of her. In fact, are most anxious to get one."
"I will not let you take her," Servaes warned.
"You will not have a choice," answered Jirí. He shot a dark glance over his shoulder. "If you, by some outrageous miracle, stop me then others will come."
"I’ll take her to America. Tell the elders she is dead." Servaes took a menacing step forward.
"Nay," Jirí denied. "I will not lie for a blood being. The council will see it easily."
"They will kill her, Jirí." Servaes finally looked at Hathor. Her face was pale and drawn. She gulped, suddenly realizing how real of a fate the council was for her. Servaes’ tortured eyes searched her. In a flash she saw rows of fangs slicing into her body at once. She felt the endless days of torture that would await her as they probed and studied and tasted.
"Yea," Jirí returned, "they will. You should have killed her yourself, my son, for now it is too late."
Servaes growled and bounded with fury at Jirí’s back. The older vampire sidestepped the charge easily, feeling it coming before Servaes even moved. Servaes flew over the side of the building, dipping below the edge before reappearing with a leap onto the stone. Jirí’s hands fell to the side as they glared at each other.
"You will not win, my son," Jirí whispered. Repeating his earlier warning, he said, "If I do not bring her, more will follow."
"He’s right Servaes," Hathor called. She saw the glowing in his eyes, a burning fire that reflected just as darkly from Jirí’s. She shivered at the deadly force of both vampires as they faced each other. "They will not stop coming for me. Not until I am dead."
"I will protect her," Servaes growled to Jirí, not taking his eyes from him.
"From Ragnhild? Amon?" Jirí asked with a disdainful scowl. "You are a fool if you truly believe you can. Yea, Servaes, I know them all well. I know what they will do
. Am I not the one who represents our tribe now as Vladamir sleeps? The stories of the council are true. You cannot fight all seven tribal leaders and me. They are too powerful."
"You know the death they will give her, Jirí," Servaes shouted. He leapt down from the edge, stalking forward to move around Jirí in a circle. Suddenly, he burst forward, slamming into Jirí’s waist. Hathor screamed in terror as the men fought through the air, only to stumble and fall over the other side. She ran after them to look down. Jirí was on the ground, Servaes atop of him. Then, just as quickly, Jirí pushed up from the earth, and the men flew over Hathor’s head, missing it by mere inches with their boots, to land on their feet behind her.
"Then finish her! Kill her!" Jirí ordered, pressing his hands into Servaes’ shoulders as he moved him back. "You have the power to make her death painless! But do it now afore any others discover the chance I gave you."
"I cannot!" Servaes growled. Hathor gasped. His gaze softened when he looked at her. The fight drained from his body. Turning his troubled gaze to Jirí, he whispered, "I cannot do it."
Jirí nodded his head, hiding his smile from both lovers. He released his hold, letting his arms drop as he backed off. Lifting his jaw, he let an emotionless mask fall over his face. Quietly, he commanded, "Then turn her."
I cannot, Servaes said to Jirí, unable to say the words aloud. I cannot condemn her to this life. I am not worthy of her.
You must do something, Jirí countered. He looked at Hathor. Her pink lips pursed together in worry, her creamy skin glowing like fresh peaches.
"Servaes," Hathor whispered. She crossed over to him. His body was rigid as she placed her hand on his arm. "Please, Servaes. Do not let him take me. Change me. It is what I want to happen. I want to be with you."
Servaes knew he had no choice. As he looked into her eyes, he knew that it was what he wanted, too. His gaze bore into Jirí’s as he reached forward to grab Hathor by the neck and pull her forward. His touch was tender. He lowered his mouth. He glanced at her eyes, seeing her gaze as she watched him trustingly from under the sweep of her lashes.
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