Redeemer of Shadows

by Michelle M. Pillow

  “Do I know you, monsieur?” Servaes asked defensively. His shoulders straightened, his chin lifted nobly in the air.

  “I am your sire, your father. Do you not recognize me, son?” Jirí laughed. Servaes opened his mouth to protest. The vampire held up his hand to stop the words. His face grew serious for only a moment, as he stated, “Or at least I will be.”

  “What do you want from me, monsieur? I have nothing,” Servaes stated coolly. He held himself tall, brave, as Jirí again drew around him. “I have no wish for a new father. Mine suited me as well as any other.”

  “No, he was your human father. I wouldst be much more to you. But, like him, I will give you life.” Jirí smiled benevolently, an achingly beautiful expression.

  “I won’t be blackmailed by you. I thank you for your kindness and your clothes, which I will just as happily return to you. I have nothing, monsieur. I have become no one. There is nothing I have to offer you.” Servaes tried to move away, but Jirí reached a hand to his arm to stop him. Servaes eyed the strange, long fingernails with a sense of growing apprehension. There was power in those pale hands. He felt it gripping his arm.

  “That is exactly why I want you, my darling Servaes. Because you have nothing, but know everything I need to. You see, I do not understand your kind.” As Jirí spoke, he whispered into one ear and then the other. Neither one noticed Hathor stuck uncomfortably on the ground, her head frozen as she was forced to watch.

  When Jirí walked, his back was straight and proper and he carried himself like a true nobleman—cultured and refined. His voice was old, crackled by time. The words carried with them a darkness, as if he himself was of the darkness. The old vampire’s eyes glinted with fire, as he said softly, “I do not understand all this need for invention and knowledge and equality that you modern men speak of.”

  “If it is a lesson in modern theology you would like, monsieur, mayhap you should find someone more suited to—” The man’s cold laughter stopped his words. Servaes backed away from him. “I will ask you one last time to leave me be. Unless you can reverse time and give me back what I have lost, then we have nothing to discuss.”

  “I cannot reverse time, but I can give you more than you ever dreamed possible. I need you to explain this way of thinking to me. I do not understand it. You do not have lords and peasants anymore. There are these people, these worker peasants who…” Jirí waved his hand with a frown of distaste. Everything about him was dark and haunting. His face shone like a luring melody of unending measures. “I do not understand the mentality. You will explain it to me. You will connect me once more to the world and together we will conquer it. What fun we will have, Marquis. What adventures we will experience. What worlds we will taste. And we will rule all of them—together.”

  “I’m flattered, but I’m not looking for a male lover,” Servaes said.

  Jirí laughed. “I speak of intellectual companionship. You are educated, noble, rich. You are worthy of being my son.”

  “You’re mad,” Servaes whispered. The man ignored him.

  “Methought it best to change you here, in the New World, where life is simpler and much easier to control. I wanted to give you time to learn of your new existence. When you master your skills, I will take you back to France. There we will reclaim your title and property. I have already made the arrangements with my man that it should be so.”

  “You are the one who sent me here? You are the one who ruined my life? Why, monsieur?” Servaes demanded angrily. His face turned red with hatred. “Why would you do such a thing to me? I had everything.”

  “You only had the illusion of everything. I am offering you a new life, a better life. A life superior to all those nobles you hate. Oui, my darling marquis, I know you hate them. I can feel you loathing them and despising their ignorance. You are not like them. You are special. That is why I chose you.”

  “You’re mad,” Servaes spat, disbelieving. He thought of Hathor, of her sweet face. His heart broke. Here was his answer—the deranged man in front of him, walking and moving with infinite grace. He was the whole reason he’d lost her and that loss was more painful than the money and the title. He never cared for the privileges of birth. Only with Hathor had he felt truly alive. “Why would I help you after you have ruined me? I should call you out.”

  “You will help me, Marquis,” Jirí stated, smiling a cruel, dark smile. The look replaced all the loving tenderness that had been there moments before. Baring his fangs, his eyes glinting red with blood, he declared in a demented whisper, “Because you will have no choice.”

  Servaes froze, recognition dawning in his eyes as he realized who the man was—his torturous ghost. The realization came too late. Jirí leaped for his throat, grabbing his prey easily by the arms. They flew through the air, stretching the length of the dock. Servaes’ boots bumped noisily, as his heels dragged backward over the wooden planks. Jirí’s lips locked over his prey’s neck, his teeth sinking into the warm flesh with the stinging precision of a doctor’s needle.

  Servaes fought the vampire’s rapacious hold. The pain in his throat quickly subsided to be replaced by a strange lethargy. He fought the numbness, trying desperately to push the demon from his chest. Soon, he was too weak to move. His hands fell limply at his sides. Hathor reached out for him. Tears streamed wildly down her face. She trembled violently but still couldn’t scream.

  Within a matter of seconds, Jirí let go. Servaes fell to the ground. He didn’t move, save for his eyes as they searched the stars. The old vampire jerked his head back, blood trailing down over his chin and neck. His red eyes moved in his head. His arms spread wide to caress the ocean’s breadth. The vampire fell to his knees with a slow and steady pull forward, landing silently on the wood.

  Hathor watched as Jirí bit his own forearm, milking the blood to the surface. Then, grabbing Servaes’ unmoving head, he yanked the dying man’s hair so that his head rested on the ground before him. Jirí stroked his arm, forcing his blood out to drip over Servaes’ parted lips. The crimson liquid trickled down the man’s throat. Servaes wheezed and choked.

  “Drink,” Jirí whispered. His soft words of comfort washed over the man he held, as he continued, “Join me, my sweet marquis. Soon the pain will end. I will give you everything.”

  When Servaes’ lips moved and quivered again, Jirí lifted the man’s head and fitted his mouth to his arm. Servaes’ eyes popped open, the pupils pulled completely red. He sucked at the arm like an angry child, starved for food. Soon, he was strong enough to grab the vampire’s arm. Jirí’s chilling laughter rang all around them.

  Hathor shut her eyes, refusing to see anymore. She felt as if her life ended on those wretched docks. Her heart ached for the human Servaes, knowing he could no more fight Jirí’s will than he could his own death.

  Suddenly, her aching body began to twist and sway. She knew the dream was ending. She knew the breaking of her heart could never be mended. Servaes was dead. All she could do was cry for him.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The ocean’s waves crashed in gentle symphony, urged forth by the night wind. The hard wooden planks beneath her hands ground roughly into Hathor’s palms. She heard Servaes’ screams of agony all around her, drowning out everything else on the dock. She heard Jirí’s delighted chuckle as he watched the man die. The screams began to fade into the roaring ocean. The hard, unforgiving wood softened against her skin. Her arms became free to move.

  With a weak breath, Hathor opened her eyes. Her lashes fluttered lazily against her cheeks. The boards became chilled flesh and hard muscle. Lifting her head, she watched the wound on Servaes’ chest heal beneath her. The taste of his thick blood was in her mouth. Only an instant had passed, but in her mind it was more than a lifetime. An overwhelming pain shot through her as she thought of the country life with the human Servaes she would never have. She drew a ragged breath to calm her cry of agony. The memory was very real.

  Pushing up, she noticed they were on the hal
l floor. Servaes’ eyes were closed, his body unmoving. Placing her fingers on his chest, she felt a steady heartbeat beneath the cool flesh. Her hand slid from him to the floor, and she staggered to her unsteady feet. The journey left her feeling hollow and worn.

  Looking down at him, she saw traces of the face she’d fallen in love with in the king’s garden. It wasn’t fair of him to do that to her. His face was the same, his body leaner in its form, but she knew underneath his closed lids would be eyes cold and demanding, not like the mirthful eyes of a handsome nobleman who walked with her in the sunlight. The sunlight was the one place this Servaes couldn’t take her. With him there would be no sunsets or sunrises, no golden afternoons. The heart of the man died to leave behind the soul of a creature. Hathor wept.

  Through her tears, she glanced down to the main hall. The light that streamed in from the windows was lighter. Dawn approached fast. Servaes hadn’t moved from his place on the floor, his limbs didn’t stir.

  “Servaes,” she whispered. The sound was throaty and raw. She knew she could leave him. If she did, he would die, and she would be free of him. But what of the others? Would they forgive her if she let one of their own perish? Would they let her live if Servaes wasn’t around to protect her? And, more than that, would she risk never seeing the man she loved again? For somewhere in the depths of the vampire’s cold dead chest, there had to be a trace of that man. She had to believe it was so.

  Hathor dropped to her knees. Placing a hand on his face, she felt the fine, chilled texture rub against her palm. “Servaes, you must hurry. The dawn approaches.”

  Still he didn’t stir. Hathor leaned over, pulling his weight forward to her chest. She couldn’t stop her fingers from stroking his hair as a lock fell over his face. With strength she didn’t know she possessed, she hauled him to his feet. Then, maneuvering his weight onto her back, she dragged him down the first flight of stairs.

  The moisture didn’t dry in her eyes as she carted him though the front hall, passing the dining room and kitchen, down the basement stairwell. The entire time, his heart beat against her back, a reminder of everything she wanted and could never have.

  Her feet stumbled wearily in their journey. Her muscles burned. Part of her sensed the sun’s nearness. Her skin prickled in warning, feeling much like a sunburn. Falling to the side, she pushed her back and Servaes into the wall by the door. Then, moving to turn the knob, she threw open the door, dragged him inside, and hauled him into his bed. Stumbling now she was free from his weight, Hathor moved to close the door. Her heart beating wearily, she sank down next to him, closing their bodies away from the death that would come with the sunlight.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  American Colonies, 1682

  Servaes’ body twitched and writhed in torment. His heart quickened, his lungs stopped, his skin pulled tightly to his flesh. He was dying. He could feel it. Inside, his organs shut down one by one.

  The pain lasted an eternity, a second. His slender frame slowly filled out. The muscles weakened from his travels grew strong once more, bulging against his skin as every ounce of fat melted from him. As the organs died, his hair and nails grew long from the demise. With a terrified gasp, his eyes opened, and felt the first stab of fangs against his trembling bottom lip. His own salty blood dripped into his mouth.

  Jirí stood over him with a devilish grin. “Painful, eh?”

  Servaes’ answer came in a shortened gasp. His eyes turned in his head toward the ocean. He detected every detail in the waves, heard every distinct sound of each splashing droplet. He thought he saw the clear outline of a fish swimming near the surface. Weak and disoriented, Servaes again looked at Jirí.

  “What have you done?” Servaes gasped laboriously, his voice a raspy growl. “What have you done to me?”

  “I have given you life,” Jirí answered simply, “and death.”

  “What am I?” Servaes tried to stand, but couldn’t manage it. His limbs trembled like a newborn colt’s. His lips curled into a demented snarl.

  “You are now of the tribe of Moroi. You are chosen. I have baptized you with my blood,” Jirí obliged. “No one will ever hurt you. You will never be sick. You will never die. You are immortal. Now, you truly do have everything, Marquis. I have given you the gift of the world.”

  Servaes stayed on his back, too weary to move. If he was dreaming, he willed himself to wake up. However, the numbing pain in his limbs was too fresh, his keen vision too new. Everything was very real. The ocean crashed, ringing insistently against the birth of a migraine in his brain. He tried to block it out. His vision blurred and cleared. He was disorientated, his senses enhanced but uncontrollable.

  “I didn’t ask for this gift,” Servaes grunted, sounding as if demons worked in his throat. His body stiffened, and he screamed again in torment as another piece of him died.

  “Neither did I,” Jirí stated. “We do not choose the dark gift, it chooses us. I chose you, and together we will live forever.”

  “You have condemned me to hell, you fiend,” Servaes shouted, glaring accusingly. “You accursed demon.”

  “Get up. We must get you to bed afore the dawn.” Jirí ignored Servaes’ heated words, showing no emotional attachment to the accusation. The vampire stood straight, turning his back to the man on the ground.

  Servaes obeyed, but not because he wanted to find a bed. He wanted to strangle his demon. He rolled slowly to his hands and knees, stopping to rest as he looked at the ground to gather his strength.

  Jirí didn’t help him, waiting instead for him to stumble to unsteady feet on his own. When Servaes stood, Jirí said, “And we are not demons. We are called vampyres, if you must have a name for it.”

  All of a sudden, a white light entered Servaes’ eyes, his head tilted back on his shoulders, his body lifted up into the air. As if far away, swirling closer, he saw the image of a bird, a strange drawing on stone. Just as quickly, the image faded, and he fell back to the ground.

  “Remember it,” Jirí ordered. “Now come.”

  Again standing, Servaes swayed violently like a drunkard. His mind wrapped around the image he had seen, not knowing what it meant. He thought of it until it burned into his mind. He thought of it because he could think of nothing else.

  “Your legs will steady. Do not worry.” Jirí strolled ahead of his new child at a leisurely pace. Servaes faltered behind him, limping and dragging his feet like the abomination he knew he had become. Jirí nodded his head at a passing sailor. The man paid the two nobles no mind as he quickly hauled a willing woman to his boat.

  “Why the dawn?” Servaes asked, not taking in a thing around him but the gentle thuds of Jirí’s boots as he followed the creature. His eyes fixed on the heels, as they pushed up from the dirty ground. He saw every detail of the motion. His senses steadied and his body began to calm. “What happens at dawn?”

  “Dawn is the one thing that can kill you, friend,” came the gentle response. Jirí’s movements became tender, almost as sensual as a lover’s would have been in that moment. Yet, there was no desire in his embrace as he put his arm about Servaes’ shoulders. Stroking his long nails over Servaes’ ever-paling face, Jirí caressed him like a new toy. “You must always enter your grave afore dawn. It is the only curse of the undead.”

  As Servaes heard the words, he knew they were a lie. Already he felt a darker power coursing through his veins, the beginning of a hunger so deep it warped his mind and took complete control. His gums ached. His teeth worked in agitation, wanting to bite.

  “Do not worry about that feeling, my friend, you will learn to control it so it does not control you,” Jirí said. “You cannot feed tonight. Your body is not ready. But tomorrow at dusk, I will let you end your torment. Besides, what is one night of agony compared to an eternity of pleasures?”

  Servaes was powerless against Jirí’s will as the man led him through the darkened streets of the small colonial town. His steps were slow and staggered. Jirí didn’t seem to min
d. Servaes’ eyes stared out like those of a waking corpse.

  “There is a lot of work to tend to, my son. We will spend a few nights here before moving up the coast. I should like to taste this Indian blood of the Americas soon. It has me very curious.” Jirí spoke as if they discussed the weather or a simple boyhood jaunt across a strange land. “We will need a servant, I think. What thinks you of Samuel? He is a bit coarse, but an obedient lad. I have the feeling his family will be meeting with an accident soon.”

  Servaes grunted, having no idea what the vampire spoke of.

  “Oui, Marquis. Methinks Samuel will do nicely. Besides, when you get them young they can serve you longer. It is such a bother to bind a new human into service. Mortals never last too long.” Jirí continued to chat idly, glad for company after being alone so long.

  Servaes said nothing, trailing next to the strange demon that led him through the streets. His guts twitched with a sudden fury. Falling to the ground, he puked all the food from his body.

  Jirí stood, waiting for him to finish as if nothing was amiss. Then, as Servaes once more stood, he handed him a handkerchief. They again began to walk. The old vampire kept talking of things that had no meaning to the dying man at his side. And, in the boarding room of some building, he stuffed Servaes into a coarse pine box to meet with his first day of eternal rest.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Servaes opened his eyes with a jerk. Inhaling, he detected the day. He froze, waiting to burst into flames. The fire never came. All around him was darkness. Instantly his eyes found the top of his casket, the white comfortable satin much different than the coarse pine of his first bed. His body throbbed oddly from the strange dream, the physical pain no longer affecting him but in faint memory. So much of his beginnings had been forgotten.