Redeemer of Shadows

by Michelle M. Pillow

  “And you, mademoiselle? What of your parents?” Suddenly, her eyes turned sad, and he was sorry for it.

  “They were killed two years ago in a car—carriage accident. Another carriage spun out of control, hitting them. They died instantly.” She paused, taking a deep breath. “Beyond that, I only have an aunt. She owns a beautiful home in London.”

  Well, it is as close to the truth as he can believe, she thought.

  “And your aunt? Who is she?” he asked. “So I might call upon you in London if I find you have disappeared.”

  “Why, the Countess Dulac,” Hathor exclaimed with forced coyness. “Already you forget.”

  “How careless of me,” he laughed, noting how she avoided answering. He wondered if her aunt were somehow linked to a scandal she would be ashamed of telling him. He didn’t care about such things. He wouldn’t judge her by her aunt’s actions.

  As he became thoroughly entranced by her eyes, he forgot everything. Servaes leaned forward. His hand brushed over her cheek. Hathor stiffened, pulling away from him innocently. Servaes hid his frown, even as he admired her modesty. He dropped his hand, lightly saying, “Come, I will show you the other fountains.”

  Lifting her by the hand from their secret bench, he escorted her through the bulk of the gardens, keeping away from nobility whenever possible and introducing her when it couldn’t be avoided. The human Servaes stayed true to his word and didn’t leave Hathor’s side.

  Selfishly, he kept her to himself. Hathor didn’t mind. She was scared to reveal too much, though Servaes asked many questions. She saw the curiosity in his boldly searching eyes when he studied her.

  The more Hathor learned of him, the more hopeless she became. Her heart beat his name, branded by his handsome face and easy laugh. There was so much life in him, and it broke her heart to know she could never stay with him, that she was living in a cruel dream. But, cruel as it was, she let herself pretend.

  In the garden, servants came around with trays of sweets and champagne. Then, as the afternoon wore on, dinner was called, and they made their way into the long, formal dining room. By the time the meal was served, her identity had spread and been accepted throughout the court with Monsieur Nottingham doing his best to act as if he personally knew the enchanting creature. No one was unaware of the devoted attention Mademoiselle Vinceti received from the very eligible marquis, who up until that time had no serious prospects for a wife.

  Hathor was a bit hesitant to eat the endless trays of food presented her—baked hens, roasted pig, herbed potatoes, breads and cheeses. The finest of champagne was poured in a boundless flow of gaiety. She was afraid of how they might have been prepared—given it was a different time. Eventually, she decided that since everything around her most likely wasn’t real, she might as well enjoy herself. For dessert there were small cake-like pastries, jams, tarts and chocolates.

  Hathor blushed each time Servaes would catch her eye from across the table to secretly wink at her when no one watched. She couldn’t help curiously glancing down over the banquet to see the king. A large vase blocked her view of him, and his face never really came in view. Occasionally someone would direct a question toward her. She took Servaes’ advice and smiled. Her words were low and enigmatic, so none really understood, but all applauded her great knowledge.

  After dinner Servaes again claimed her arm, much to the dismay of Nottingham, who tried to make his way across the room first to ask for her company. Servaes smiled victoriously at the man, who could but bow at having been beaten. Again she was led to the courtyard to gather with a throng of people at the base of the stairs. A great many candles and torches had been placed all around the garden, lit as the nobles dined. They now danced and glowed over the earth like the reflection of stars.

  Turning to Servaes, she whispered, “I must thank you for today. I will never forget it. Or you.”

  “You speak as though this day is the last, when I will not hear of it. Come with me to the fountain later. There is something important I would discuss with you.” His eyes shone discerningly, softening with warmth as he looked at her oval face. An endearing cloud of shyness passed briefly over his confident features.

  Hathor didn’t have time to answer. Her heart thudded uncontrollably. She jolted at the sound of horns, turning to watch as the king was announced to his guests. King Louis stopped on the top step, regally gazing over the nobility of France. Reaching out his arm, he was joined by a lovely vision. Her yellow-and-cream gown matched perfectly with the king’s outfit of the same. Gradually, the king led the woman down as servants threw rose petals over them.

  Leaning to Servaes, Hathor whispered, “That must be the queen.”

  Servaes laughed lightly. Hushing into her ear, his accent sent chills over her. “The queen is in bed with an illness. That is the king’s mistress, Madame de Maintenon.”

  “Mistress?” Hathor squeaked. “You mean he just walks around with her, unashamed? And everyone knows about it?”

  Servaes sent her a questioning look. It was the way of things. Surely the innocent on his arm was aware of such happenings. However, bearing witness to her appalled expression, he knew she was not. Unconsciously, he pulled her closer, intent on not letting her go. The more he learned of her, the more he wanted her—forever.

  “Pardon, Lord Normant.”

  Hathor turned her attention forward to a dark enchantress dressed in brilliant pink. She batted her almond-shaped eyes playfully at the marquis, her dark breasts thrust forward brazenly for his inspection. The woman pursed her lips invitingly, pretending not to see the woman he’d escorted all night.

  “Madame La Fontaine,” Servaes nodded. To Hathor’s pleasure, he didn’t look at the sultry woman for more than a second before turning to her. Politely, he introduced her as he had all night.

  Madame La Fontaine looked at her in disdain, barely acknowledging except to direct a curt nod at her. Turning her smile back to the marquis, she pouted, “Monsieur, please, if I might have a word with you?”

  Servaes saw the pleading look in the dark woman’s eyes. La Fontaine was infamous for making undesirable scenes if not given her way. He turned to Hathor, bidding her to wait for him as he led her to be seated by the main fountain. Then, going to Madame La Fontaine, he took up her arm politely and let him draw her away.

  Hathor watched until she could no longer see him in the crowd. She turned her attention to the others of the French court. For the most part, they didn’t see her watching them from the shadows. Those who did see her pretended not to.

  Hathor shivered. Her eyes searched for the vampire Servaes. Now that it was night, she expected him to come and get her. Her face moved to the dark shadows. The fear she’d been trying to suppress all day surfaced. If the vampire didn’t come to her, what was she to do? She couldn’t live in seventeenth century France. She had no place to stay, no money. She wasn’t exactly sure this world was fake anymore. Everything around her was too real. Her stomach was full with food, her head a bit light from champagne. The stone beneath her was hard as it pressed into the uncomfortably binding dress.

  Suddenly, she froze, seeing a figure step from the shadows of a statue. She could sense that he was not like the others. He didn’t turn to her, but she saw the pale hand as it clasped a decorative walking cane. He was dressed in dark blue. Frills and ribbons hung over his lavish clothes. His hat and periwig were tidily done, and he walked with an aristocratic air.

  “Servaes,” Hathor whispered in his direction. The man stopped and turned toward her. Even over the distance she saw he was not her vampire. Squinting, she gasped as she recognized the face beneath the curly wig.

  Jirí.

  Slowly, she stood, compelled to follow the creature as he walked through the crowd. The world around her seemed to slow. The distinct tinkling of nearby laughter stretched over the course of several seconds, the reply to it garbled like the slowest speed on a record player. Only she and Jirí were not affected by normal time, as she watched th
e vampire make his way past unsuspecting nobles.

  Hathor realized she was seeing things like vampires would see them, as they sped leisurely through the human world. Everyone moved so slowly that they couldn’t detect the undead lingerer amongst them, and yet the lingerer would be able to pick and choose a conversation or person at ease. It was a much different sensation than what she’d felt with Servaes, as he’d sped them over distance.

  Occasionally human time would again speed up, and she found herself on the outskirts of a conversation. A few of the noble members of court seemed to recognize the vampire and called out in greeting as if he were one of them. Hathor knew he wasn’t by his pale skin, and his eyes that glowed through the darkness. He would answer with polite nods and gestures. Then again time would contort as he moved gracefully through the crowd. She watched him speed up like a flash, walking through with deliberately exaggerated movement and speech.

  Hathor started to follow him, passing undetected by the nobles as she made her way. She neared Nottingham, who laughed with one of his fellow cronies. As she passed, she heard him say with a lecherous wink, “Mademoiselle Vinceti, I would like to—”

  Hathor flicked her hand to the bottom of his champagne glass, spilling the contents over his jacket. The annoying nobleman had stared down at her chest all evening. She saw his face turn slowly to surprise. She barely managed to quell a mischievous giggle.

  She quickened her pace as she followed Jirí near the palace steps where the king stood alone. Then, suddenly, Jirí stopped. His attention turned to the side.

  Hathor followed his gaze to where the human Servaes was being directed inside the palace by Madame La Fontaine. Servaes’ soulful brown eyes turned toward where he’d left her. Hathor’s heartbeat quickened as she saw his handsome face. His earnest expression drew slowly over the crowd as he moved to the side of the palace. She gazed at him, her body full of longing. The careless grace of his movements captivated her as they were drawn out and slow.

  The crowd was too thick for him to see the fountain. Time became normal once more. Suddenly, fireworks exploded overhead in mighty pops. The noble court clapped and gasped with awe. The laughter was loud as it rang over her in waves. Servaes ducked behind the palace wall as all attention was drawn to the sky.

  Hathor turned amidst the crackling fireworks, the streaks of color bright enough to cast faces into dramatic relief. Jirí hadn’t moved. He smiled, delighted by some unknowable intention. Servaes had disappeared. Jirí moved forward to Madame La Fontaine to gently clasp her neck as he passed. The woman smiled at him in invitation. Jirí’s nails traveled over her skin. She visibly shivered.

  Hathor stepped closer. She ignored those in the crowd as their attention stayed on the sky. Madame La Fontaine stared forward. Jirí came about her back. Then, tilting her head to the side, the vampire smiled wickedly. Hathor watched as he opened his mouth, boldly biting down on the noblewoman’s delicate neck. The woman didn’t move away. She didn’t fight him. Her dark eyes closed dreamily, and her hand lifted to caress the vampire’s hair as he drained her. Jirí didn’t even try to hide from the gathered crowd. But it didn’t matter. The crowd’s attention was turned upward.

  Unexpectedly, Jirí paused in his pursuit of the woman to gaze directly at Hathor. Hathor gasped and turned, trying not to be detected as she ducked behind a large group. Her eyes flew demurely to the ground to stare at the hem of her elaborate dress. She held still for many moments. The ground beneath her churned. Her feet became unsteady as the streaks of fireworks blurred heavily overhead. Faces paled and faded. Laughter grew loud and soft. Glancing back to Madame La Fontaine, she saw Jirí had left his meal standing dazed on the side of the crowd. The vampire moved in her direction. Hathor cringed, recoiling in fear. And then, without warning, everything was gone.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  King Louis’ palace was a magnificent blend of precise architecture and luxurious spirit. No expense had been spared when creating the legendary structure meant to surpass all others of the time. Secret passageways and tunnels traveled behind walls, letting the king move freely throughout the palace undetected, joining him to his mistresses and helping him to escape from the home, if the need ever arose.

  Past the long corridors filled with boundless windows and mirrors, beyond the great halls and dining rooms graced with sculptures, were the chambers of the king’s favorite mistress. Vast walls arched high overhead, their red color of the deepest shade. Golden trim lined halfway up in decorative borders, with rows of various paintings on the top and bottom. The artwork was crafted directly on the walls, free of frames. Paintings were also on the ceiling panels, curving around in an overhead arch. Large, white double doors fitted high to the ceiling trimmed with red and gold designs.

  Along the smooth marble floor were decorative platforms holding immense candleholders. More flickering candles hung overhead in a crystal chandelier, the crystals like rain falling in frozen droplets. The light illuminated and cast the romantic chamber with a soft glow. Raised up on a platform was a large bed, cushioned soft with red satins and silks, adorned with fluffy pillows. A circular headboard fitted into the wall above the bed.

  Servaes frowned. He looked down at the crude map Madame La Fontaine had pressed into his hand. Turning back to the giant painting from which he emerged, he ran his fingers over its borders trying to find a latch to open the hidden door so that he might again make his way into the secret passages of the castle. He couldn’t find one.

  Suddenly, a statue of a woman caught his eye. It was oddly placed by the bed. He would have sworn it had not been there before. Stepping forward, entranced, he gazed at it. It looked like Hathor in the pose of a Greek goddess. Her marble eyes seemed to melt as they looked at him, and he saw a slash of blue in the white stone. Servaes shook his head and blinked his clouded eyes. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The woman captured him. He wanted her.

  Shaking his head, Servaes knew if he didn’t find a way out of the bedchamber, he might not have a chance to tell her. It killed him to think of her waiting by the fountain for him, never knowing what became of him. He cursed himself for listening to Madame La Fontaine.

  Grimacing, he shoved the note into the concealed pocket of his overcoat. He was in the king’s mistress’ chamber. Of that he had no doubt. He could see the yellow gown she wore that day thrown over a gilded chair.

  Walking cautiously forward, he kept his heels from clicking against the marble floor. Prudently, he made his way to the chamber doors. Pressing his ear to the wood, he heard the approach of footsteps. He let loose a silent curse.

  “Marie, is that you?”

  Servaes froze. The soft, feminine voice was light with joyous laughter, which faded as soon as she witnessed the intruder in her chambers. A shrill scream lit behind him, ramming his body with chills. Turning, he held up his hands, pleadingly shaking his head. Madame de Maintenon glared violently at him. She clutched her red silk robe to her chest, and her eyes rounded with fright.

  “Madame de Maintenon,” Servaes tried to reassure her. He held up his hands for silence.

  “What are you doing in my chambers, monsieur?” the angry woman snapped. Her chin jutted regally in the air. Pointing a finger to the door, she screamed, “Begone at once!”

  “I was given a message from the king. Here, let me show you,” Servaes begged, trying to reach into his pocket. He took a step forward.

  The king’s mistress gasped, appalled. “I have no wish to see your package, monsieur. No matter how handsome you are. I belong to the king. He will not stand for this. He will have your head for this insult.”

  “Madame?” came a shout from the other side.

  “Oui, come in,” she shouted to the palace guards. “There is an intruder in my bedchamber.”

  Servaes swung around as the door crashed open. The king’s mistress turned to hide herself from the guard’s view. Screaming over her shoulder, she declared fervently, “This man has trespassed into my chamber. He c
laims the king sent him to attend me.”

  “No,” Servaes tried to deny. He turned to the guards. “That is not—”

  “Is monsieur saying madame would lie?” one of the guards asked, affronted by the very idea.

  “No, merely mistaken in her assumption,” Servaes replied. “I was given a message to come here to meet the king.”

  “By whom?” the guard asked.

  “By Madame La Fontaine, from the king,” Servaes answered, automatically knowing how foolish it seemed. “Please, go and ask her, she will tell you.”

  “Madame La Fontaine is dead. Her body was found this morning by her family.” The guard motioned for him to follow. His green eyes boiled with authority and outrage. “She took her own life.”

  “No,” Servaes denied, confused. “You are mistaken. Madame La Fontaine is here. She is outside in the garden.”

  “No, monsieur, it is you who are mistaken. I saw the body myself. She gouged herself in the throat. I helped carry her from her family’s chateau. Now come.” The guard surged forward, joined by reinforcements. A dispatch was ordered sent to the king. Servaes was pulled from the chamber, dragged by his arms from the room, protesting his innocence.

  “Guard,” Madame de Maintenon called.

  “Oui, madame?” One of the men stopped and turned dutifully to her. He bowed low at the waist, awaiting her command.

  “Have someone move this awful statue from my chamber. I’m sure the king wouldn’t have ordered it placed here.” Madame de Maintenon turned from the door. The guard looked curiously by the bed to where she pointed. There was nothing there.