Redeemer of Shadows

by Michelle M. Pillow

  “Franklin,” he stated bluntly, drawing his hand away. The single word served as a reminder of the true monster he was. Her eyes shot open to look at him in a mix of horror and amusement. It was a mockery to his being there. He felt his beating heart squeeze, not wanting to think about the curse that was his existence. In front of one as pure as Hathor, his immortal life became all the more damned. He was a killer. No matter how he dressed it up, that is what he was. The blood on his fangs attested to it.

  “Franklin?” she asked. Then suddenly, she smiled. “Oh right, for a moment I forgot that you mean to be a vampire. I suppose I should admire a man so dedicated to his craft. So who is Franklin?”

  “A very bad man.” When she didn’t holler in fear and try to run, he once more lifted his hand to her smooth cheek. He touched her for a fleeting moment. His gaze dipped down to her throat held by sapphires. Then, sliding his fingers over her bare neck to her shoulder, he took up her arm. He pulled her to a bench with him.

  “So you killed someone tonight?” she asked as she took her seat. Her tone was such that she could’ve been asking about the weather.

  “I kill someone almost every night,” he said, hating the turn in conversation.

  Her eyes darkened and looked away. His gaze trailed down the gentle curve of her nose to her full lips. Parting his mouth, wanting to kiss her, he felt the brush of fangs along his bottom lip and quickly hid them.

  “You do not believe me, do you?” he said at last. When she looked at him doubtfully, he smiled. He was glad she didn’t believe him. He liked having her think of him as only a man. “Care to dance?”

  “With you?”

  “Yes, with me.” As he said the words, soft, old music started around them. She looked up in surprise.

  “Where—?”

  “A modern disc player,” he stated in a low murmur by way of explaining. The strained tunes of an orchestrated waltz began. The sound, however, didn’t sound modern. It was grated and fuzzy, as if from an old phonograph. Servaes placed his hat on the bench as he stood. Smoothly, he bowed before her with genteel elegance. Then, holding his hand out to her, he flashed a devilishly slanting grin, “Mademoiselle, would you do me the honor?”

  “Oh.” Unable to deny his gentle persuasion, she slipped her fingers into his. His touch sent a thrill over her, like a shockwave through her tingling skin that he could feel. He was in tune with her desires. Her lips ached to kiss him. Her body longed to press to his. But she was too scared to let it. So instead she held back, waiting for him to move first.

  “Like this,” he instructed. One hand moved down along her arm until it rested at her waist, the other took up her palm into his. His fingers wrapped firmly around hers. As he held her, there was space still left between their bodies. Hathor shivered. Whispering into her ear, he said, “One two three, one two three, very good.”

  Hathor threw back her head and laughed as he led her about in the steps. He danced with such precise skill that she followed him easily. Servaes smiled, moving faster to keep time to the music.

  As the music slowly faded, Hathor dropped her arm and stepped back from him. Her flushed cheeks shimmered in peachy translucence. His eyebrow shot up in surprise as she tried to leave him. Slowly, he shook his head. His eyes flashed as they probed into her, enchanting her with their brilliance. This time when he tried to mesmerize her she unwittingly let him have the power over her to do so.

  Suddenly, the night became a peculiar place. Shadows twisted and moved around them. Servaes had no intention of letting her leave. Taking her back into his arms, he said, “The ball is not over, ma petite. Not until we have danced all night.”

  Almost instantly another dance began. Its tone was different from the waltz they had just completed, though its music was still scratchy. As they danced under the moonlight, held captive by the web woven around them, the songs faded and blended into each other—a gallopade, a schottische, another waltz.

  Hathor lost all sense of time when she looked at him. Servaes whirled her in a circular motion around the conservatory floor. Her gown swept over the litter of fallen leaves. At times she could almost see the twirling of other couples moving around them. She heard the laughter and gaiety of the past echoing faintly in her head, a memory that was not her own. Hours passed like seconds, dancing under the stars, with Servaes whispering softly into her ear, teaching her the steps and names of each new dance. When she followed his instructions with ease, he would murmur a compliment of her skill. And, slowly, his arms closed the distance between them until she felt the beat of his heart against her constrained chest.

  His strength was tireless. When she thought her legs would surely take no more, he pulled her closer, seeming to carry her with his strength, transferring it onto her until she floated above the floor. Hathor’s breasts pressed into his muscular chest. She felt the night air on her cleavage, the firm lines of him against the tender flesh.

  “You’re a wonderful dancer.” Hathor smiled up at him, her eyes dipping to his lips. She became drunk on his closeness. Her fingers trailed up his arm to rest on the side of his cooling face. The warmth of her skin contrasted his pallor, but she didn’t see it. Slowly, her eyes closed. Her head tilted back to offer her lips.

  Servaes felt her heart beating to match his, knowing that if he wanted, he could take her completely. He didn’t, but he also couldn’t deny her one kiss. He lowered his lips to her willing mouth and tenderly ran his tongue over the sweet taste of her. When she gasped, he slipped inside the velvet entrance. He pulled her safely into his arms and caressed her back, tangling his fingers in her hair to loosen it from the clips. The clips clattered beneath them on the stone.

  She moaned in pleasure, gripping his fine black jacket. The material crumpled under her shaking fingers. Passion shot through her at the taste of him. A soft moan escaped her. He lifted them higher off the ground, higher than they already were. In his dark and greedy pleasure, he brought them up into the conservatory dome, surrounded by the serenity of stars.

  Servaes took in her breath, feeling it inside his lungs, breathing her life into his undead body. When she moaned again, gentle and light, he took that in too, for once forgetting himself as his mouth became more insistent. With her, he felt like a man. He forgot everything but the feel of her. He forgot who he was. She quickened him as nothing had.

  Hathor’s shoe fell from her foot, crashing loudly below them on the ground. She didn’t hear it. Servaes’ lips deepened his kiss, his teeth drawing over her bottom lip. The torturous tide of his passion became unbearable. With its master off guard, the creature within awoke—hungry and fierce.

  Hathor’s breasts pushed up from the gown, begging to be free of the tight folds. Her body shook with passion. The feeling streamed with intensity through her whole being. Servaes’ hands stroked down over her back, curving around the thick pads of the gown to press beneath her tender backside.

  With easy strength, he lifted her leg, pulling her knee to his waist. Her body opened up to him, allowing him to sink inside the cushioned depths of her heated center. His body pressed into her so that she felt every curve of his chest. His hips ground passionately, begging to be released from the prison of his breeches. Their shared heat seemed to melt the clothing from their bodies until it was as if nothing parted them.

  Servaes’ hand on her leg grew bolder when she didn’t protest, to sensually inch up the slick hosiery, beyond the garter adjoined to her corset, to rest at her hip. Hathor didn’t stop him and he knew what little power he had over her didn’t allow her to focus beyond the basic needs of her body. She wasn’t equipped to resist him, didn’t see the red need filling his eyes.

  Servaes’ kiss became more persistent, capturing her unsteady breath until he smothered the air from her lungs. She was overwhelmed with passion and would taste so sweet. His fangs bit into her mouth, naturally seeking to draw a taste of her blood as the heady aroma swirled in his senses.

  Hathor jerked sharply at the unexpected pai
n of her burning lungs and stinging mouth. She thrashed as she struggled for air, taking back whatever control she relinquished to him, though it hadn’t been much. Her eyes shot open in dizzying surprise and he brought her quickly to the ground. The stars disappeared from around her head in a flash of streaking lights.

  Her feet hit solid floor and gown once more fell about her legs. She panted wildly for air, as if she couldn’t breathe. Fear gripped her, urging her to flee, but her blood roared with the lingering lethargy of his thrall, weakening her heavy limbs. She couldn’t move, didn’t dare run.

  Servaes still held her close. He wanted to finish what his body craved. Her sex pulsed, hating her for denying it pleasure. Shaking her head in confusion, Hathor stumbled out of his embrace, unsteady by the lack of one shoe.

  He stiffened, turning to look at the sky. They weren’t alone. There was a presence just beyond the trees, passing them. He waited for it to go by before turning his attention to the back of Hathor’s head.

  Servaes’ body hummed with life. The one taste of her sweetness stirred his hunger to a ravenous need. He turned from her, lest she see the damning evidence of his longing in his eyes, lest she see the abhorrent struggle as he fought for control. He felt his emotions turning, urging him to take her. He fought the painful insistence growing inside of him, though the taste of her blood drop was more pleasing to his senses than any others before it had ever been. It was like the intoxicating potency of the finest merlot to humans.

  His jaw widened as if to bite her through the air. His head rolled back on his shoulders. He stifled a rough howl. Slowly, he regained himself. He turned to her with stalking grace. A slow, languid smile curled about his lips. Blood trailed down her crimson-stained lip, over her chin. The last bit of music faded and he let it go.

  His eyes followed her rapid pulse beneath the sapphire necklace. The jewelry was old, made in his human time for a lady of King Louis the Great’s court at the Palace of Versailles. Servaes had known the king and thought it amusing that history now remembered him as the Sun King.

  He started to move toward her. Another presence passed, closer this time to the gardens. Servaes paused, knowing he should go before anyone sensed him. His body craved the feel of her with a longing suppressed for hundreds of years. She held up her hand to stop him.

  Hathor clutched her discarded shoe in her hand, careful to keep a firm eye on his face as she leaned over to slide the slipper back onto her foot. Next, she picked up the antique hair clips and pushed them into her wild hair.

  Her mouth throbbed. She lifted her fingers to her lips, wincing slightly as she felt the wound he had made on her mouth. Servaes was too calm. She couldn’t read it. If not for the slick redness staining her fingers, she would have doubted they kissed at all. She studied the blood in confusion before looking at the ceiling dome. Balling her hand into a fist, she lowered it to the side.

  “I think I should go in. I’m tired and starting to imagine things.” She gave him a weak, unassuming smile. Licking the last bit of blood on her lips, she saw his intense eyes dart down to watch. Her chest heaved at the desire she saw in him. No man had ever looked at her with such intensity, such longing, such hunger. It terrified her.

  She knew he was a man used to having his whims fulfilled. He was a man used to a certain type of woman—confident and sure in their blatant sexuality. He had sex on stage with those women—confident and sure enough in himself to do so. She was no fool. She couldn’t handle a man like that and she was definitely too scared to try.

  “I’m sorry if I led you to believe that there would be more happening between us tonight. But I don’t do this. I think that…” Hathor’s words disappeared into a self-damning mumble. She cursed herself for her insecurity, wishing she could be the type of woman who could ask for what she wanted. Quickly, she spun to run away.

  “Wait.” He came up behind her. The heat of his breath hit her skin. “You promised me nothing. I expect nothing. Join me again tomorrow. Together, we will relive all the centuries. I wish only to be in your company.”

  “I can’t. What I mean to say is, I shouldn’t.” Hathor pulled away from him. “I don’t know that I should see you again. I thank you for tonight. It was one of the most adventurous of my life. But—”

  “Then come to me tomorrow,” he broke in softly, his gaze pleading. “I will send you another gown. Tell me when you would like it to be tomorrow. Any place, any time. Just meet me.”

  “That is very kind, but I can take no more gifts. In fact, I am sure this gown needs to get back to your prop room at the club. Should I have it cleaned and delivered? Or would you prefer that I didn’t let anyone know I have it. I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble if it was not supposed to be used outside of the theater.” Hathor couldn’t even manage a smile for him. Her heart raced. Her legs urged her to run from him, away from his magnetic eyes and tempting body. The dark night seemed to close in on them. A sense of danger besieged her.

  “I am not in the habit of taking back my gifts, mademoiselle,” he stated coolly, with a bit of disappointment in his expression.

  “Oh,” she gasped. “Then at least let me give you this necklace. Even for a knock-off, it looks very convincing.”

  His dark scowl stopped her from moving. Frowning he hissed, his voice hard and low, “Again you insult me.”

  “I won’t sleep with you,” she blurted unexpectedly. Her eyes rounded in shock at her own words, but she swallowed to elaborate. “I know you must be used to wooing women to your bed with these theatrics, but I’m not one of those women lying naked for you in your club. I don’t want to be some actor’s conquest. So please, stop trying.”

  “You’re not, chéri—”

  “Stop,” she pleaded in mounting frustration. She really wanted to know him, but the act was getting tiresome. She wasn’t accustomed to being lied to. Rubbing her forehead with shaking fingers, she begged, “Just stop it. You’re not a Marquis from the seventeenth century. You are not a vampire. And no matter how well you kiss or how many times you bite open my lip, I will not believe that you are. You need help if you truly think you are some child of the night, but I think you understand perfectly what you are. Your eyes are too cold and calculated not to know. You are very good at seduction, but please don’t—not with me. I don’t wish to be seduced. So if that is what you are after, find a twit and try your charms on her. I am going to bed, and I’m getting out of this gorgeous gown and out of this binding corset and then…then I’ll have it cleaned and put back in the box. Just send someone around to get it in a few days. Truly, my feelings won’t be hurt if you wish to take it back. I won’t think any less of you. In fact, I insist on returning it.

  “I don’t mean to be rude, because I do like you. I just don’t have the time or energy for these games. When, and only when, you come to your senses, you can come to me during the daytime and visit me like a normal man. Maybe we could be friends. We do seem to have a lot in common, and I do have a great time with you. After you tell me the truth, we can relive as many centuries as you wish. However, I would have the truth first. Until then, just stop messing with me.”

  Hathor breathed heavily, and was instantly sorry for her words. A deep pain passed over his face. Servaes glanced urgently over his shoulder, before slowly making his way across the conservatory floor. Lifting his top hat, he slipped it over his long locks. Then, without daring another glance, he left her.

  She watched him walk away until he was out of sight. Her body still twinged with desire. Her mind swam in uncertainty. Her blood salted her lip. With an overwhelming sense of guilt, she rushed to stop him and apologize for her harshness.

  Hathor ran into the dark night that had only begun to lighten with the hint of approaching dawn. It was too late. Servaes was gone. Helpless, she threw her hands in the air. Through her daze, she didn’t want to go inside quite yet. She stumbled back to the stone bench of the conservatory. Sinking onto it, she looked weakly around, and she began to cry.


  Servaes had not been able to answer Hathor as she yelled at him. No one dared to speak to him like that. Had women always been so frustrating when you couldn’t read and control them? He couldn’t remember.

  He was haunted by the smell of her blood as it had mixed with the leaf-scented breeze. He forgot about the others searching beyond the lawn, unable to see past the memory of her chest heaving in exasperation. The creamy thrust of her breasts had drawn his eyes for much of the evening. No matter how hard he tried to wrap his thoughts around her mind, he couldn’t. Not even to control her enough to keep her from screaming at him. A thought struck him, not for the first time, that she would be in danger from his kind—even more so if he continued to draw attention to her by visiting.

  Servaes traveled swiftly through the shadows, his body impassioned as he flew back to his lair beneath the city streets. Her words burned him. He could’ve proven himself to her—shown such terrifying horrors that she would’ve had no choice but to believe he was what he claimed to be. Instead, he ran.

  Servaes saw the truth in her declaration, knew it in the taste of her blood. She was not for him. She was for a man who could come to her in daylight bearing roses and sweet candies. She deserved someone who could walk with her in the sunlight, take her on afternoon picnics.

  The realization didn’t calm his hunger or desire for her. There was no way he could be what she needed. Once a person was reborn into his world, there was no going back. Many tried and several had even died in the search to end the immortal curse—to become human again. No, he knew it was useless. There was no way for him to become like her, and there was no magical secret that would grant him the day.

  The only way for them to be together was if he made her like him. He wouldn’t take her without her consent. Even if she agreed to join him, he wasn’t sure he would allow her to. For, to possess her as he desperately wanted, to claim her forever as his own, he would have to condemn her to his dark existence. He would have to make her one of the accursed undead. And in doing that, he might lose her anyway.