"Well, that pretty much rules out what I had in mind to pass the time," she smiled impishly and then blushed when Servaes’ eyebrows rose daringly on his forehead. Hathor giggled, turning from him to pull the high backed chair before the fire. Her arms lifted it easily. She smirked at Servaes. Her eyes batted playfully as she held the chair in one hand and then the other before setting in down near the bearskin rug. "This is kind of fun. What else can I do?"
"Not much yet," he answered. "After you have eaten, you will be stronger."
And so it was that an unspoken truce was drawn between them. Neither mentioned what they faced, talking as if they merely waited for an unknown friend to come to their door. Hathor sat in the chair. Servaes knelt by her side only to sit and stretch his legs towards the fire.
"I can hear extremely well and see. Look at that stone. I can detect every grain in the texture from here." Hathor pointed at the fireplace in awe, the stone she stared at was several feet away. "And everything is so rich and vibrant. It all appears to have its own life. Even the blue tapestries."
Servaes chuckled. Hathor’s hand lazily kneaded into his hair, stroking it back over the arm of the chair with her long nails. She ignored the splendor around her, content to stare at his dark locks.
"Can I cut my hair and nails?" she asked. "They have gotten so long."
"No," he answered, "not for many years."
"What will happen if I try?"
"It will grow back the same, and you will be the weaker for it," he murmured. He turned to glance at her. "But do not worry. You look beautiful."
"More beautiful than before?" she wondered aloud.
"Different," he affirmed, not wanting to remember her rosy cheeks replaced by her pallor. Not that he cared about her looks. He loved her for her, and her face didn’t matter.
"And when do I get my teeth?" asked Hathor, feeling her mouth with her finger. Her teeth were still flat.
Servaes again angled his head around to look at her. She opened her mouth to show him the flat surface. He hummed thoughtfully. "You should have gotten them already, I believe. But I have never turned anyone before. I suppose it is different each time. They will come."
"I don’t feel very hungry," she whispered. Her smile faded.
"Neither do I," he admitted. "It is strange, that. We should have awoken feeling the twitches of it, especially after what was done."
"Can I take a bath?"
"Not in here," he mused with a chuckle. "In general, oui. But you will hardly have a need of one unless you prefer. Most of us get out of the habit."
Hathor again began to stroke his hair. It slid through her fingers like cobwebs of the finest satin. Seeing his trunk, she asked, "Will you read to me? In French?"
Servaes glanced at her curiously. He followed her gaze to his trunk. Quietly, he said, "You do not speak French, do you mademoiselle?"
"No," she answered with a pretty smile. Servaes grinned. She folded her arm by her head, curling her legs up into a ball on the chair. Snuggling into the soft cushion, she continued with a low murmur, "But I would hear it anyway. The sound of your voice comforts me, and if I can’t have you, I would hear it. Besides, maybe I will learn to speak by listening."
"All right, mademoiselle," he consented. Servaes went to his trunk, digging to the bottom to pull out a dusty French book. Smiling, he swiped his fingers over the cover. A cloud of dust rained through the air, lighted by the fire’s orange glow. Opening the cover, he read, "Le Rouge et le Noir."
"Le Rog --" she began. Her accent was atrocious and Servaes winced as if in pain.
"Are you going to listen or butcher my native tongue?" he shot with a smirk.
Hathor giggled. She playfully slugged him in the shoulders but said no more. She tilted her chin regally, waiting for him to continue. Servaes grinned, turning once more to the yellowed pages. Flipping over to the first chapter, he began to read.
Chapter Twenty Two
Hours passed before the flickering of the firelight. The soft, smooth accent of Servaes’ voice wove a spell over the chamber as he read the old novel. Hathor didn’t understand a word he said, content to relax and listen. He was halfway through, before he stopped and closed his book. He glanced over at Hathor, seeing her eyes closed. Slowly they opened, turning to him with a quiet gentleness. Her heart filled with love for him, his beautiful face -- his strong, tender presence.
"Can’t you at least kiss me?" she asked with a yearning sigh.
"No, ma petite," he whispered, lifting his hand to stroke her hair. His long nails trailed over her whitish cheek. The touch was electrifying. "It would not be wise. We cannot seem to stop ourselves once we start."
"But I’m still not in pain, and I’m not suggesting we fly around the room while we do it."
Servaes chuckled. The idea had some merit.
"I know it is strange that the hunger has not come. It has been almost a day, and I, too, am not hungry," he admitted. "Mayhap, it takes a few days for some. The exact details of my changing are dim. Perchance I gave you too much blood. I do not know."
"Then what will one kiss hurt?" She leaned forward, offering her parted lips to him. Her long, thick lashes fluttered over her eyes. Her skin tingled, sending a little shockwave over her system, seeming to jump off her flesh onto him, drawing him to her.
Servaes couldn’t resist her. He moved forward to press his mouth to hers. Murmuring to her lips, he said, "Je t’aime, Hathor."
"I don’t know what you just said, but all right." Hathor lifted her hands to touch him. Her vampire blood heightened her senses. With lightly hovering fingers she pulled him forward to her. Her lips brushed against his in a light caress. Servaes held still for a moment, just feeling her next to him. She was warm, and her breath still panted. His lips curled, knowing she only breathed out of human habit.
His hand dipped into her soft hair. He kissed her lips. His eyes drifted closed, liking the feel of her mouth against his. Hathor drew back. Servaes’ lips were a bit warmer than usual, though they held a familiar chill.
Hathor licked her lips, gazing down at his mouth. Softly, she urged, "Make love to me."
Servaes groaned, heavy with desire. He pulled back, shaking his head. "No, my temptress. We can’t. It will expend too much of our energies. We must find something to take our minds from it."
Hathor gave him a doubtful grimace that appeared to say, good luck, Marquis!
"Shall I read some more then?" he asked. He cleared his throat, adjusting himself comfortably on the floor. Hathor nodded, leaning back down to stare at the fire.
"All right," murmured Hathor. "But I don’t think I’m learning anything."
Servaes chuckled, picking up the book and thumbing over to the page he left it at. As he began to speak, his heart thumped steadily within his breast. Their future was uncertain, their past unforgettable. But, for the present, they had each other, and he couldn’t have been happier. For in all the things he had seen and done in the world, sitting next to her reading was the simplest, most treasured memory he would have.
That night, as dawn encroached upon the outside world, Hathor and Servaes sat quietly waiting. Servaes read most of the book, laying it aside when he grew weary of talking. Leaning his head back, he felt Hathor again stroking his hair. He smiled almost content, almost feeling human again.
"If you are a Marquis, then what does that make me?" she asked.
"Hathor Vinceti," he answered. "We would have to marry for you to receive a title."
"Oh," she whispered. In all the strange excitement and intrigue, she hadn’t thought of that. She hid her thoughts from him, as she stretched. "I’m still tired."
"It should go away." Slowly, he stood, holding his hand out to her to pull her to standing. "It’s almost dawn. We should get inside the coffin."
Hathor followed dutifully behind him, her gaze straying to his firm backside with longing.
Stop that, he directed at her without a backwards glance.
What? Hathor shot
back, as innocently as she could muster.
Servaes lifted the coffin’s lid for her, letting her crawl in first. Hathor lay on her back, shooting him a naughtily coy look. Servaes grimaced playfully and then, with a sigh, he lay next to her.
This is going to be a long night, directed Hathor.
"Is that a threat or a promise?" Servaes chuckled, closing them into the darkness. But, despite their longing, they didn’t touch each other more than they were forced to as they fell asleep. Neither wanted to admit the shadows they felt surrounding them. They didn’t want to lay voice to the end. They hoped if they didn’t speak of it, it wouldn’t come to pass.
* * * *
That night their dreams were again filled with the images of stone runes. Only this time the birds turned black and fell off the stones to the ground over piles of slain corpses. Hathor shivered, waking in the middle of the day to hug Servaes to her chest.
"Are you all right?" he asked, worried.
"Just a nightmare," she murmured delicately. By slow degrees her breathing calmed, until her chest lay still and she again shut her eyes.
Servaes held her closely, her slender body a fragile remembrance to his arms. He felt her heart beating regularly against his chest. The even thuds lulled his senses until they again slept.
When they awoke again at dusk, the dreams hadn’t stopped. Hathor rubbed her tired eyes as she sat up in the coffin. Servaes went to check the door. Still, the heavy oak didn’t move.
He didn’t mention it as he turned to her, watching her crawl from the coffin. Her bare feet padded across the dark floor. He watched in amusement as she lifted her hand to the fireplace. The fire didn’t light. She pursed her lips together and tried again.
"Fire," he heard her whisper.
Servaes chuckled. He waited for her to lift her hand before motioning behind her. The fire lit. Hathor gasped, spinning to him with pride. When she saw his hand lowering, she shook her head in mock anger. "Very funny, monsieur."
"So what would you like to do today?" Servaes shrugged. When Hathor smiled playfully, he held up his hand, "Besides that."
Hathor rolled her eyes heavenward. Casually, she breathed, "You had better be careful or I might start to take offense at your rejection."
"Hathor --" he began.
"I’m sorry if I woke you last night," she interjected to keep him from responding. She smiled sweetly. "I just keep having the same dream."
"I know." His face was blank. He came forward and sat on the chair she left by the fire. He stretched his legs lazily in front of him. "We had the same dream."
"Why would you dream about my tattoo?" she asked, curious. Hathor paced restlessly behind his turned head, hopping on one foot and then the other in frolicsome self-amusement.
"Your what?" he questioned, a bit sharply. Hathor paused, moving to study the back of his head.
"Please! After everything we have been through and are going through, you’re not going to get mad about that are you? I didn’t even hide the fact from my parents." Hathor wrinkled her nose in defiance.
"You jest," Servaes asserted.
"No," Hathor put forth mildly. "I told them before I went to the tattoo parlor. My father wasn’t happy about it, but what could he do? I was of age."
"I have seen you," he paused to glance around the chair. His gaze roamed rakishly over her form. A smile lingered on his face at the memory. Hathor took a step back at his lecherous perusal. His body began to pulse with fire, as he added, "All of you. I would remember seeing a tattoo on that pretty flesh of yours."
"It’s on my back hip," she smirked. "But you must not have looked there. You are always too busy staring at my front."
As if to prove her point, Servaes’ eyes darted up from her chest. He gave her an unabashed shrug and a come-hither smile. Tapping his fangs thoughtfully with his tongue, he suggested, "Come, let me see it now."
"No." Hathor denied him, moving away. Servaes stood in an easy movement. He eyed her like a stalking beast. Hathor wasn’t scared. She pouted prettily for him, as she said, "You just want to see me naked again."
"Oui," he admitted, forgetting himself. With a commanding nod, he ordered, "Take off your clothes."
"I will do no such thing. We have to behave, don’t you remember?" Hathor scolded.
"Technically, according to our laws, you belong to me until you are ready to be out on your own, which I will decide for you. Since I made you, you must follow my instructions completely."
"Yeah, like I haven’t heard that one before." She grinned, shivering at the look in his eyes. Then, shaking her head so that the long locks of her hair spilled over her shoulders, she said, "I don’t know if I trust you to teach me the laws. Next you will be telling me that after we leave here, I’ll have to be in your bed every night."
"Oui, it is unfortunate and true," he asserted with a nod of his head. His devilishly handsome eyes began to glow with a naughty light. "Do not make me turn you in to the council."
"I’m beginning to believe there is no council. It is like the threat you old ones use on us young ones to make us behave." Hathor placed her hands nonchalantly on her hips. "Speaking of which, what will the others say when they see you shacked up with one as fresh as me?"
"They will be envious," he said. Then stiffening, he questioned, "shacked up?"
Hathor giggled at his confusion. "I see there are some things I can teach you. It means we live together."
"Many people live together. Are they all shacked?" he questioned. The devilish light never left his eyes.
"Only people who are living together and sharing a bed but are not married." Hathor looked down at her hands.
"That is the second time you have mentioned this marriage subject," Servaes observed.
"I don’t mean anything by it. It’s just a coincidence."
Hathor bit her lip, refusing to think about it. Eternity was a long time without the sanctity of marriage. Although, Hathor knew it was strange, in light of everything that had happened, to dwell on it.
I am no longer human and have a lot to learn about my new kind, she reminded herself.
Servaes hummed thoughtfully, but said nothing.
With a kittenish toss of her head, Hathor changed the subject with ease. "Don’t look at me like that. You are the one who said we had to behave, and you are not behaving."
"All I know is that I have yet to crave blood, but my body burns with a hunger so deep that if I don’t see that little tattoo of yours soon, I will surely explode." He glanced down to his midsection, drawing her attention to his strong erection standing ready.
"Oh," Hathor gasped. She blushed. "Fine, I will show you the tattoo, but nothing else. Deal?"
"Argh," Servaes growled.
Hathor smiled. "I’m taking that as a yes."
She slowly moved towards him. His eyes fastened on her hips as she moved. Her blue jeans hugged snugly to the curves. Slowly, her fingers found the button at her waist. She undid the binding material, moving the zipper down slowly to expose her lace panties. Tilting his head, he watched gluttonously as she turned. Lifting up her T-shirt, Hathor exposed her back hip to him and pulled down her jeans just enough to expose the top of her buttocks.
Sure enough, there was a tattoo. Servaes stiffened. He leaned over to get closer to it, falling to his knees. Hathor giggled as he grabbed her hips. Narrowing his eyes, he leaned into her to study the simple black design.
"It is not that interesting --" Hathor began.
"Why did you not show this to me?" he asked in all seriousness.
"What?" Hathor gasped in surprise. She tried to move. His firm hand on her hips stopped her. Lightly, he touched her back, tracing over the hieroglyphic of the bird. "You can’t tell me you are seriously upset by it."
Servaes didn’t answer, unable to believe what he was seeing.
"Servaes?" she persisted. Hathor finally managed to pull away from him. She buttoned her jeans as she backed away from his serious eyes. "What is it?"
"When did you get that?" he asked hoarsely.
"When I was in high school, I had just turned eighteen."
"Why did you pick that design?" he continued, staring at her hips, as if he could still see it on her back.
"It is the old Egyptian symbol for my name. I don’t know. It sounded like a neat idea at the time. Really, it’s no big deal. Almost everyone has at least a little one these days. I mean, I know when you were human only sailors and tribesmen had them. But today it is acceptable in most circles."
"It’s not the tattoo," he exhaled. "It’s the symbol."
"What of it?" she inquired, frightened by his sudden change of mood. His eyes turned almost black.
"When you turned," he asked slowly, "did you see anything? A vision of some sort?"
"No. I only saw you, your life, my life."
Servaes shook his head, confused. He slowly rose to his feet. "You should have. Every vampire does. Something is not right. I still am not hungry, and you should have been raving mad with bloodlust by now. It doesn’t make sense."
"What does this have to do with my symbol?"
"It is what I saw when I turned," he whispered. "It is the same as in our dreams. Something is happening here, and I don’t know what it is."
"Maybe it’s nothing," Hathor soothed. She reached out for him. He wouldn’t be comforted.
"I gave you a lot of my blood. I can feel it in you. I can tell that you are changed. I can see it inside your thoughts, by the firmness of your body. But it is almost like you have not changed completely."
"Maybe your blood was old. You have never used it. Maybe it just takes longer," she offered. "And maybe the symbol just confirms I am meant to stay with you."
"I felt your pain as you died. I can smell your death on your skin. But it was almost like I died that night to. I felt the change in myself." Servaes moved back to his chair, falling into the cushion. "We are not the same as before."
"Servaes, I…." she began. Sighing, her shoulders slumped some as she walked over to him. Quietly, she voiced, "I can’t be of help with this. I feel different, stronger. I can feel that I am dead. I can hold my breath forever, and it does not hurt. It is hard to explain, but I am sure you understand."
Redeemer of Shadows Page 30