Redeemer of Shadows

by Michelle M. Pillow

  She saw the pain killing brought to him, how it hurt him each time even after hundreds of years. He rejected hurting children and the innocent. Every one of his victims had a dark secret. Whereas it wasn’t the ideal justice system, it made sense on a baser level. Hathor couldn’t blame him. But could she forgive him?

  Shaking her head, she punched her pillow in confusion. She was so lost. Maybe forgiveness wasn’t hers to give. She couldn’t give Servaes the redemption he sought. She didn’t know anything anymore, didn’t understand. Servaes surrounded her, marking her. She could taste him, smell him, feel him. God help her, she loved him.

  Servaes ran from her and the feelings she evoked. His skin begged to be next to her, to hold her and make love to her again and again, forever. He felt the steady beat of her heart, heard it clearly in his ears, even now that he was away from her. His body never felt more alive, his blood never so quickened, as it was when he was in her arms. The knowledge tore through him like a blessing and a curse. There was nothing he could do—nothing to offer her in return. Yes, he could feel, but he had stopped feeling such things long ago. Such emotion only brought pain. Once you killed the feelings of the heart, they were not so easily resurrected.

  Whatever happened, he could not go back to her. It was time to end it.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Hathor fell asleep, her body too weakened from his malevolent gift to do much else. Nightmares plagued her. When she awoke it was morning. The sun streamed in her window, casting the square shadows of the windowpanes across her naked contours.

  Pushing herself up, she groaned. Her muscles felt like she’d had a hard workout, pulling stiffly so that each movement was like a stretch. And, deep inside, there was a throbbing ache where Servaes had touched her soul.

  Swallowing insecurely, Hathor stood. She quickly slipped on some clothing—blue jeans and a T-shirt—not bothering with her appearance. Servaes wouldn’t come to her now. A nervous terror gripped her as she stumbled her way down the long staircase and across the formal dining room. Stopping above the basement stairs, she froze.

  Tears spilled from her eyes as she began to cry. Clutching the railing, she haltingly tripped her way down the steps. Her heart broke, the two pieces refusing to beat. Without him, she would never be whole. Her bare feet made no noise in the darkness. She cautiously switched on the light as she passed through the basement kitchen. Then, stopping at the door to his bedroom, she took a deep breath. He was gone. She felt it even before she pushed open the door.

  Walking over to the bed, she stared at the smooth coverlet. She could detect the faint impression of where his coffin had been. In its place was a folded parchment. Automatically, her eyes went to the floor where his trunk had stood. It too was gone.

  With shaking hands, she picked up the letter, wiping the tears off her cheeks. Her nose burned with the need to cry out. She hugged the parchment to her chest, shut off the light, and climbed up the stairs into the backyard. Then, crossing barefoot over the soft cushion of grass, she followed her feet to the fountain where he first met her in the gardens.

  Sitting, she gazed at the frozen woman in stone, as the statue glanced behind her in worry. The sun caressed the sculpted details of her face and hands. Hathor took a deep breath. Lifting the letter, she unfolded it, noticing there was no wax seal as there had been before. Inside she recognized his writing, the fine scroll of an old quill.

  “Do not come after me,” she read. “Forget me if you can. Think of me as dead, for that is what I am to you. Adieu, Servaes.”

  There was no more to the letter, just those simple words. How could she forget him? It would’ve been easier to forget her heart’s beating, to forget to take breath. The parchment fell from her fingers, blowing away with the breeze across the beautiful garden, kissed by sunlight. Hathor didn’t have the strength to stop it. She stared numbly at her fingers, calmly clutching at the air. The blood in her veins slowed. It was his blood inside her, given to her in passion. Her life was his. She was forever changed.

  A grief so powerful welled within her. It flowed out from her like a silent scream, carried over on the wind. It reached out to him, damned him, cursed him, loved him, for it was he who had shown her the will of her heart. It was he who had shown her a destiny so bittersweet it soured. He had shown her the only thing her heart could ever want.

  Hathor realized with a sudden blast of insight that she didn’t care if he turned her into the creature he was. If she were with him, it would be worth it. She would live in darkness, drink of blood. She would find a way to endure it, because she would be with him. That is what fate held for her. Her heart could take nothing else.

  As the pain of her broke and spilled forth over the distance of earth and time, as she fell to the ground in weeping sobs that racked her body until she could no longer move, it was not Servaes who caught her scent or her pain. It was a force much older, much darker. It was a force buried deep behind rock and earth that had been waiting patiently to see what would happen between the two lovers. And within this invincible force, an unfeeling heart thumped just once.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Island of Delos, Cyclades

  The deep waters of the southern Aegean Sea surrounded the ancient island of Delos. Its old Greek ruins buried secrets of the past beneath the island’s surface. No humans were allowed to stay or live on the island. The vampires willed it so.

  The secret society of humans aware of the dark presence decreed the island a place of archeological significance. When a tourist would go missing, lost in the depths of the sea, these same officials would declare the loss an accident.

  On the island, tourists would snap their pictures by day, gazing at the ancient ruins—the fallen columns, the old stone lions whose faces were eaten away by time. But at night, the island was home to the small vampiric tribe of Vrykolatios who roamed it freely, protecting the secrets of the vampire past and feeding off the blood of neighboring islanders.

  Archaic stone floors—mosaics of the past depicting gods turned myths—were a part of the ruins. The vivid patterns were still visible after thousands of years of sun and storm. This was where Jirí found himself, standing by a broken column, staring down at the circular design so familiar and old to him.

  Leaning over, he pushed a combination of mosaic pieces, first a weathered red, a black, a faded green. The mosaic didn’t move. Then, going back to his broken column, he lifted the old rock easily with one hand. Before his eyes the centerpiece of the floor spun, kicking up a great deal of dust.

  Jirí placed the column just like he found it. Then, walking over the stone, he jumped into the vaulted floor. He fell down easily, through a tunnel of spider webs and dust that opened into an oblong chamber until finally landing in the depths of the earth.

  As his feet touched the marble floor, fitting neatly in his tribe’s circular symbol, the opening above his head sealed shut with a thud. Dust floated down around him. He lifted his fingers to brush it from the shoulders of his floor-length jacket.

  Folding his hands neatly in front of him, he stood tall, as if the descent took no effort, when in fact it hadn’t. Smiling politely, he met the eyes of the others gathered, nodding his head to all around. Making his way to the large stone table, a circle in shape with a large hollow center, he took his seat amongst the tribal council.

  The council hall was made of carved stone. The floors were of gray marble slats, with a black impression of the tribal symbols behind each of the eight chairs. Colorful mosaics decorated the walls depicting the bites of vampires, legendary and real. Around the doors hung dark red draperies, which framed the thick old wood and hid them from view.

  The round table dominated the room, its legs and edges carved with old designs, and in front of each chair, the symbol of the tribe. In the middle of the unbroken circle was a hollow. The floor sank a few feet below the table’s legs with a short pedestal in the direct center holding a lighted torch for illumination. The fire cast the tribal elder�
�s pale faces into ghoulish contrast. High-backed chairs surrounded the table in eight spots, each occupied now that Jirí took his seat.

  “Jirí of the Moroi,” acknowledged the weathered voice of the Drauger leader, Ragnhild. His old blue eyes glowed slightly yellow from his handsome Nordic face. He had the look of a Viking warrior with his long, braided hair and trim beard. Jirí didn’t know the elder’s real name, or why the Drauger leader allowed them to call him Ragnhild, a name traditionally belonging to a woman. He was dressed simply in breeches and a tunic shirt. “Has Vladamir not risen from his rest to take his rightful place in the chair?”

  “Nay, he has not. But his body is safe,” Jirí allowed, as he had every meeting since his first.

  The others nodded. Most of them sensed as much. Jirí had filled in as the Moroi leader for decades and was well known amongst them.

  Around the table were the leaders of each of the eight tribes. Or, in such as Jirí’s case, an old vampire chosen to fill in while the true leader turned to a life of sleep—a half existence that plunged the soul into darkness and drove the need of the blood hunger from the body. The longer the old one slept, the less likely he was to arise.

  Each tribe had their own origins, but they were ultimately descendants from the same true bloodline. Each carried their own keen abilities, excelling in a certain power. When they made more of themselves, they passed on the strong, unique force to their benighted children.

  The council leader, Theophania of the Vrykolatios, keeper of the island and of vampiric secrets, sat at what was acknowledged as the head of the circle, though in truth she was no more powerful than the other leaders. She lived an isolated existence, away from the influence of modern life, thriving on the old ways.

  Her sister, Chara of the Vrykolakas’ tribe, was at her side. Both sisters were dark and beautiful. Chara was more contemporary in her tastes with a revealing dress of thin black and lips painted the color of blood, whereas her sister dressed as an ancient, showing large amounts of her skin beneath her metal bodice as she lounged lazily in her high-backed chair.

  Andrei of the Myertovjec was seated next to Chara. His flirtatious eyes and lust for living, though he was dead, made him a charming companion but highly unreliable. His kind often threw compulsive parties, feasting on whole families in a single night. Then there was Jirí in his appointed seat, next to Pietro of the Llugut. Pietro was the last of his line, and refused to make more. He sat brooding in his silence, ignoring all but the torch as it caught his attention.

  Amon, leader of the Impudula, watched carefully all those around him. His black skin shone almost gold as he exuded the presence of a god. It was only for the council that he left his homeland of Africa. He was placed next to Vishnu of the Rakshasa.

  Vishnu still carried herself as the Indian princess she had been, her rich clothing wrapping around her slender body with silken grace. Vanity gave her the name of a powerful god. Her arms were adorned with bracelets, her hair parted in the middle to fall long about her shoulders in black waves, framing her wide, almond-shaped eyes that watched with a dark gray beauty. And completing the circle, between Vishnu and Theophania, was Ragnhild.

  Theophania raised her delicate fingers, her head falling back over the arm of her chair. One of the four doors burst open, revealing a line of eight beautiful young women in white shrouds, each a human native of a vampire elder’s homeland.

  The women walked dutifully to their designated master or mistress to stand by the sides of their chairs. Pulling back their sleeves, they held an arm out for the vampires to drink. Jirí saw the cloud over his girl’s eyes as she moved like a puppet before him. Her dark Romanian skin shone with warm brilliance, and he could smell the purity of her blood as it flowed in her veins. Smiling, he leaned over and slowly bit into her wrist. The woman shivered, but didn’t pull away as he took a taste of her.

  The other leaders followed suit. Andrei bit into a supple Russian breast, his lusty laughter vibrating off her skin. Amon drank from the hand of his black goddess, almost worshipping as he sucked against her flesh. Theophania and her sister both reached for a Greek neck below small delicate ears. Ragnhild, staring into the gaze of a blue-eyed, blonde-haired beauty, kissed his sacrifice before he too drank from her rounded breast. His woman gasped with passion at his lusty bite. Vishnu regally bent over, looking disinterested as she delicately bit into a slender brown arm. And Pietro merely looked at his woman with disinterest, not caring to take what was offered.

  Licking her lips, Theophania muttered darkly, “You insult me, Pietro. Drink. My children found her especially for you.”

  Pietro grunted. Taking the wrist of the Albanian, he punctured her skin quickly, swallowing three gulps of her blood before letting go.

  “Ah,” Theophania approved in her softly enunciated speech. Her eyes shone as red as the rest of them as the blood passed through her system. “Good, is she not?”

  Pietro nodded curtly, waving the woman away from him.

  “Leave now and rest,” Theophania ordered. The women dropped their offered arms, their clothes falling straight as they walked solemnly from the chamber. Then, smiling, she said, “They are yours for as long as you stay here, my family. They are a gift from my tribe.”

  The vampires nodded in appreciation. They licked their lips of any stray blood, which was little. Theophania waved her regal hand so that the door closed quietly behind the women.

  Jirí waited in silence for the issue to come. He didn’t have to wait long. Amon turned to him, his eyes narrowing, as he said, “What of the human woman? Are the claims true?”

  “Yea,” Jirí answered. This caused a murmur to fall over the stone-set hall. Not waiting to be prompted, he said, “But it is naught to worry over. It is only the young ones who cannot read her thoughts.”

  “They cannot read themselves,” the charming Andrei spat.

  “Their blood is too diluted. They reproduce themselves too freely,” Vishnu added quietly in revulsion.

  “She must be dhampir,” Theophania stated in confusion. “There is no record of her in our scrolls.”

  “Who was her vampire father?” Chara spat. She hated the half-human, half-vampire creatures the male of her species sometimes begot. “He will be punished for lying with a mortal woman and not reporting the child’s birth.”

  “She does not have the smell of a dhampir,” Jirí answered. “She is purely mortal.”

  Amon frowned. “Can she be controlled?”

  “Nay, but I left the woman to Servaes. He is loyal. He will kill her if he doesn’t turn her,” Jirí stated with confidence. “He already has laid claim to her as his.”

  “What is her name?” Vishnu asked.

  “Hathor,” Jirí turned his gaze to the vampiress.

  “Like the Egyptian goddess,” Amon murmured. “Does it mean anything?”

  “I don’t believe so,” Theophania said. Out of all of them, she knew the history best. “It is merely a coincidence.”

  “Servaes?” Ragnhild mused. “I have heard of this one. He does not create others like himself—much like you, eh, Pietro!”

  The vampires laughed, all but the brooding Pietro, who only lifted his silent eyes long enough to glare at Ragnhild. Ragnhild didn’t care. He was threatened by nothing.

  “Can this vampire be trusted, Jirí?” Theophania inquired in her soft voice. She smiled at the dark vampire she addressed, her sultry gaze ever inviting.

  “Yea,” Jirí answered without hesitation. “He is my son. I know him.”

  “Then he is your responsibility,” Amon said. “You should go back to him and this Hathor. This council can meet again when you return.”

  “You should kill the woman if Servaes has not turned her to be with him. We cannot risk such an enemy. Who knows what powers her lines will produce if we do not stop it now,” Chara said.

  “No,” Andrei put forth. “Bring her to us if she has not been turned. I should like to sample this woman who has all the young ones scared.�
�

  “Yes,” Ragnhild put in, “let us all sample her.”

  “It is decided,” Theophania said. “You will all be my guests as we await Jirí’s return. Jirí, you will rest today. The dawn is near. Tomorrow you will go.”

  The council stood. Jirí nodded his acceptance. He hid his thoughts from the others as he turned to walk from the chamber to Vladamir’s old coffin that awaited him.

  Jirí had heard the cries of Hathor’s heart, waking him whilst he slept. He felt the ache in Servaes as he hid from her. Servaes hadn’t acted. If his son refused to do so soon, Jirí would have no choice but to kill the woman for him. Either that or she would be a feast for the council, for he had no wish to turn the girl himself.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  London

  Hathor lifted her weary head up from the table. Black circles smudged the delicate skin under her eyes. The morning light blinded her as it streamed into the kitchen. Swiping at the moisture, which never really left her troubled gaze, she stared blindly out the window into the tops of the gently rustling trees. She watched the play of light, trying to convince herself she would never miss it.

  She waited all night for Servaes to come to her. Her body sang and hummed with fiery longing. Her heart still beat, albeit barely. The organ was broken. She even went so far as to fall asleep on her balcony, waiting for sunrise. Only when the song of birds squawked noisily overhead, did she get up to stiffly crawl through the early morning rays to crash tiredly on her bedroom floor.

  Hearing the front door swing open, Hathor jolted up in alarm. Her breath in her throat, she crept silently to the front hall, only to fall into a near swoon with relief.

  “Georgie,” Hathor gasped. “What are you doing back so soon?”

  Georgia eyed her niece as she placed her bags on the floor. Hathor knew her eyes were sunken and puffy, and that her nose was red. Turning to close the door, the old woman said, “It’s good to see you too, dear.”