Redeemer Of Shadows

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Author: Pillow Michelle M

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Tribes of the Vampire REDEEMER OF SHADOWS By Michelle M. Pillow

© copyright July 2004, Michelle M. Pillow Cover art by Kat Richards, © copyright July 2004 New Concepts Publishing 5202 Humphreys Rd. Lake Park, GA 31636 www.newconceptspublishing.com

Dedication: To the men in my family.

Chapter One

London, England

Stormy blue eyes rounded in shock, glancing nervously in all directions. Surely she couldn’t be in the right place. This hidden modish London nightclub looked nothing like her Aunt Georgia’s description of a delectably auspicious café ran by a middle-aged couple from Germany. "Maybe in Germany their idea of delectable includes licking various body parts in public," Hathor mused wryly. Again her gaze darted around. She wanted to laugh thinking of her old aunt, the owner of an upper crust London bed-and-breakfast, on one of the very decadent couches lined before the stage. Then, realizing that the liberal Georgia could very well come to such a place, she did giggle. Had her aunt tricked her into getting out of the house? No, Hathor thought with a firm shake of her head, Georgie wouldn’t have gone to this extreme. The club looked like an underground dance hall and brothel straight out of the turn of the twentieth


century, with a dark and modern twist. Leather g-string panties with gem-studded adornment clasped against the bronzed and glittering skin of the dancers, as they sauntered past the curtain to take their place on the narrow stone stage. The dancers’ dark faces smiled in wicked promise as they glided through the smoke-filled air. Their spike-shaped bras were tipped with steel and gleamed as they thrust them with wild abandon. The clank of their high-heeled boots ground out a lusty rhythm, pounding steadily with the beat of hard music and the aroused shrills of excited spectators. Hathor huddled in the entryway refusing to make her way through the scattered tables to the trendy stone and cushion benches. Her blue floral sundress seemed oddly out of place amidst the leather, rubber, and furs hugging against the teasing peaks of naked flesh. She gripped her purse closely to her chest, drawing no comfort from the conservative handbag as her fingers worked against the beaded pattern of the front. Never had she felt so conscious or so very aware of herself. You’re in London, she thought, doing her best not to be overwhelmed. She wasn’t so much shocked as she was uneasy. The dancers attracted her eyes, even as she tried to pull her gaze away. The rhythm of the music pulsed inside of her, mesmerizing her blood with its hard and wicked sound. Her heart began to beat faster to make time. She hadn’t been invited into this place. The forgotten stone walls, barely visible in the dimmed light, were decayed and leaked in places like the weeping of teary, old eyes kept awake a century too long. The air was damp and cool, only slightly heated by the small crowd. To her left was a long bar, the newest fixture in the place, made to look as if carved from stone. But, oddly, few seemed to be drinking the hot glasses of liquor the portly bartender tried to dispense. The apathetic man ended up shooting back that which he poured. Around the curious stage, lounging in the long cushioned seats, near figurines gilded with gold décor, sat only couples -- peculiarly matched. There was a stoic businessman. His arm pressed possessively around what Hathor could only assume was an English prostitute. A young kid, clearly American by the proud flag displayed on his shirt, crushed his lips to the exposed cleavage of a shockingly older woman. A starkly handsome man, whose dark hair hung about his shoulders to spill forth over his naked chest, naughtily licked the cheek of a balding middle-aged fellow. The balding man’s wedding ring shone bright on his finger. As his head turned, Hathor was afforded a glimpse of his passion-hazed eyes. However, it was something else that caused the lonely spectator to pause. Each couple seemed comprised of one captivatingly beautiful person -- those only seen in movies -- and one very ordinary and plain. Eerily, the stage lights dimmed into a bloody red. The smoky air cleared in coiling snake-like patterns as silent exhaust was opened in the roof of the old stone building. The crowd became quiet in respectful anticipation of the awaited performance. Eyes turned to the stage in unison, drawn to the dancers as a possessed group. An astounded light entered their captivated faces as they watched. The thrusting hips of the dancers came together in sexual forthrightness. Hathor’s eyes widened. Her face froze in stunned bewilderment. She was fascinated and horrified and couldn’t turn away. The chorus girls formed a kneeling circle around a platform. Her heart began to pound curiously, cemented in edging fear as she watched white illumination open in the bottom of the stage with a dramatic flash. She could hear the beating in her head, like the drumming of wild horses in flight. A figure moved in the dimming center radiance. The dancers kneeled in worship, leaning back to press their pointed breasts into the shadowed air. A slight moan escaped from the depths of the impassioned crowd and then another. Oh no! Hathor thought in growing desperation as she finally managed to look around. I have stumbled


into an underground sex club! These people must be prostitutes. I don’t understand. I know I got the address right. I checked the map three times before leaving the house. Damned European cities! Why can’t you have streets that lead in a straight line? I shouldn’t be in here. Is prostitution even legal in London? Hathor grabbed her purse, intent on checking the map once again. Her fingers shook slightly. She glanced around, wondering if she should just leave. No one seemed to be paying her any mind, and the front passageway leading to the entrance held no doorman. Stepping a bit from the shadows into the light, she moved closer to the bar. The bartender glanced at her before throwing back another shot. His eyes couldn’t meet the crowd. Hathor’s fingers began to dig into her purse, blindly searching for the crumpled map of London streets. Finding it, she started to pull it out. Then, as if by a will outside herself, her eyes were drawn to the center stage. Instantly the music changed, its hard beat turning seductively soft. A strange chanting stirred in the back of her mind. The words refused to let her focus. Her body lit as if possessed by fire. Hathor’s lips parted in a gasp before her breath was held steady by her alert eyes. The lighting dimmed back to red to reveal a man who was like no other -- strong arms, broad shoulders tapering to a formed chest and then a slender waist. The pulsing tones of the music fell low and captivating. The tune was from another time, erotically archaic, with the sweetly aching cry of a lonely violin. She could feel the strange thump vibrating though the stone floor. It unfurled enticingly inside of her, awakening her with a quickening she never dreamt possible. It was as if a lethargic spell was being woven about her senses. Everything faded and blurred and blended from her sight but the man. The performer was dressed all in black, snugly fitted slacks and a looser linen shirt cut into a style from the end of the nineteenth century. The old style suited him well, and he wore it with a dynamic ease that said it undoubtedly belonged on him. His dark eyes pierced through the crowd in dominant pleasure, encased by the paleness of his skin, glittering a devilish red in the light. The defined lines of his diabolically firm mouth lifted up at one side in sensual boredom. As he lowered his chin, his gaze peered through the long tresses of his extremely dark hair. He watched the dancers flip over to push their firm backsides up for his viewing. His languid smile revealed stark white teeth, two of which were pointed into sharpened fangs. "Vampire," Hathor whispered in awe as he whipped his arm leisurely through the air. The man on the stage fascinated her. As she watched him, she detected his every movement as if it was part of her soul. His limbs swayed languidly in the ease of the music. She forgot where she was. Shivers racked her spine in shuddering tickles of the flesh. Her hand fell from her purse, the bag dropping forgotten to hang at her side. Her shoulders stooped as if she couldn’t control her arms. His very presence seemed to cast shadows over everything else, mesmerizing her like a drug. In her head she knew it was only an act, but the man had a swarthy power about him. "Mm, that’s Lord Servaes, the Marquis de Normant. He’s yummy." Hathor stiffened at the distinctly British accent that fell close to her ear. Her mind tried to wrap around the words and failed. Carefully, she glanced over her shoulder to see a barely clad woman with stark pink hair that lifted high at the bangs. She wore a cut off tank that clung to her plentiful breasts. The dusky round tips of her nipples showed large through the flimsy material and on her hips hugged pink


vinyl hot pants. Hathor forced her eyes away with a nervous pant. The woman stepped closer, nearing her side. Smiling weakly, in confounded hesitation, Hathor managed weakly, "Excuse me?" The woman chuckled knowingly as she licked her lips. Her eyes drifted down to Hathor’s covered breasts to peruse her with a lustful moan. Her body gravitated closer to brush up against the ill-fitted woman. The light tilting of her accent ground softly, as she repeated with a nod to the stage, "That vampire you were admiring -- that is Servaes. He is the most sought after lay in London. His performances are very rare indeed. You’re lucky to have gotten in. I had to sleep with Sal -- that damned rotter -- for a month before he would let me into this fleapit. And between you and me, that is a lot of blowjo --" "I wasn’t," Hathor broke in, shocked. With a weakened moan, her voice trailed off. She barely heard the woman next to her, not listening to the crude speech as the music once more invaded her. Her gaze stayed fixedly on Servaes, traveling over him only to find that she couldn’t keep from staring at his handsome, pale face. His lips parted. Her breath caught. "Oh, I see," the woman continued with a smirk, her voice rising to accommodate the music as it grew louder and more fevered. The excited crowd began to groan louder with it. "You’re into the role-playing. Think it will help your chances at being picked, do you?" "I’m sorry? Picked?" Hathor questioned in confusion. She wished the woman would go away so she could concentrate on the strange fire in her limbs. Through the corner of her eyes, she saw the couples growing bolder in their public desires. The mood was contagious, urging her to throw back her head and join their mindless moans. She stood quiet, astonished by such an impulse. "Picked by Servaes," the woman sighed in exasperation. "Seriously, are you in the wrong place? Who invited you here?" "No, I’m not," Hathor stammered. "I’m meeting someone here." "Oh, spicing up the marriage a little," the woman said. "I’m not married." Hathor frowned, not knowing why she did. "I’m from America, staying with my aunt. She’s the only family have." "Oh, of course you’re not married." The woman winked, knowingly. Hathor glanced at her, annoyed by her constant chatter. She turned her head once more to the stage in uncertainty. Gasping in shock as Servaes ran his hands over a new girl brought before him, she felt a potent jealousy run through her blood with the virility of an out-of-control flame. With a flick of his wrist he unleashed the woman’s bra, and the pointed spikes plummeted to the ground. The woman’s small breasts fell forth freely. She arched her back in offering to Servaes’ lips. He leaned over to gently lick the solid nub before dismissing the girl with a dispassionate wave of his hand. Hathor detected that his face showed no pleasure from the intimate act, and yet she felt her midsection twitch in strange sensations. She didn’t have time to wonder at her wanton feelings as they consumed her. The gathering growled their approval as two of the other chorus girls began sucking and kissing the bared woman’s breasts at Servaes’ command. Their hands moved in a frenzy of desire as they glided over sweaty flesh in massaging caresses. The adored woman howled in rapturous delight as the others forced her back onto the platform.


"What are they doing?" Hathor questioned in a hurried whisper. She was unable to help her curiosity as the women tied the chosen one down. She knew she should turn and leave, knew that she was a stranger to this place, but she couldn’t draw her eyes away from the vampire. "Those women are Servaes’ offerings. He chooses someone to be punished or occasionally someone to be praised. Sometimes they are both. It appears like this one is going to be punished." The pink haired woman grunted. Her exploring fingers strayed to her large breast as she circled her nipple into a peak. The women on stage pulled the punished woman’s leather panties from her slender hips. Servaes crossed his arms as he watched in dominating approval. Her tone was a bit bitter, as she mumbled, "Servaes has strange tastes. He likes to punish humans for their crimes -- as if it matters." "Punish?" Hathor inquired, amazed. To be with such a man is punishment? "You’ll have to watch," the woman said in mysterious delight. Her eyes danced eagerly from the lonely woman to the stage. "So what did you mean by picked?" Hathor asked, a pink blush starting to color her cheeks. She finally managed to draw her eyes away from the stage long enough to study the woman at her side. Seeing the woman’s hand cupping a breast beneath her tank, Hathor’s face turned completely red. "Picked to go on stage with him," the woman said in a husky murmur. She didn’t notice Hathor’s discomfort. Her words lowered to a whisper. "Sometimes Servaes himself will pick a woman from the crowd, and he’ll take her in front of everyone." "A complete stranger?" Hathor questioned, appalled. "Is that safe?" "Oh, yeah," the woman said with a cryptic laugh. She touched her pink hair lightly. Her hips began to sway to the music in gentle thrusts of excitement. Hathor realized the woman was trying to dance with her. She tried to back away but her heavy limbs didn’t move. "At least for Servaes it is, though it sometimes angers the one who brought the woman. I have only seen him do it once, but that man can s … fuck. And his body -- oh! I saw him pick this redhead. Man, she had giant t … breasts. He made her peak so many times that she could barely walk. She had to be carried from the stage by the offerings. It’s enough to keep you awake at night." "Well, then no, I am not here to be picked." Hathor denied her arousal as she lifted her chin. The woman’s eyes traveled over her body, a knowing gleam to her as if she could see the passion invoked within. Her breathing deepened. Her eyes focused on Servaes’ mouth. The fanged tips peeked lightly from his slightly parted lips, causing her heart to race. His arms crossed over his chest with a commanding force as he surveyed the crowd, which he controlled. "Wait, didn’t you say this was your first time seeing him on --?" "Hey, I’m Ginger," the woman interrupted. Hathor glanced briefly in her direction. Absently, she muttered, "Hathor." Ginger giggled playfully. She took her finger and placed it lightly on Hathor’s shoulder. "Pleased to meet you, Hathor." Ginger’s wandering hand grew bolder as Hathor didn’t back away. It fell completely against her arm in a chilled caress. Under her breath, the woman mumbled to herself, "You have a nice body. Why would you hide it under this hideous dress?"


Hathor only half paid attention to what the woman said as she tucked a strand of reddish-brown hair back into her bun. She wasn’t sure if she should be excited by the show or shocked. It wasn’t as if they were living in the Middle Ages. Sex was everywhere one turned -- posters, billboards, cable television. She was never one to watch porn, yet here she was completely enthralled by the performance and entirely jealous of all the women on stage. The offerings effortlessly succeeded in stripping the punished one’s clothes from her writhing body. Dozens of tongues lapped at her naked skin -- over her ripened nipples to her neck to her exposed womanhood. They shackled her ankles into stirrups, holding her legs open. "What is her crime?" an excited voice shouted in the watching crowd. Hathor recognized the older woman with her college boy. The music lowered by degrees until it was a soft thud in the background, once more stirring the desires of those watching. The crowd’s hands grew empowered by the wickedly delectable show, and their lips found temptation in the arms of the others gathered. The bodies mingled together with the beginnings of an orgy. Flesh pressed against heated flesh as they waited for Servaes to speak. Lips parted revealing more fangs hidden within the crowd. Their combined breaths caught up in a rhythm of sensual pleasure and denial. Slowly, Servaes moved over the stage, keeping everyone on his own time. A smile curved his luscious mouth, and he looked over the crowd in languid perusal from his deep-set eyes. Hathor shivered as the red light glinted in his devilishly handsome gaze, looking as if it came more from within him than reflected from him. His eyes narrowed with a bright feverish tint. Arousal, swift and strong, coursed through her veins. Hathor gasped, nearly swooning with the unexpected intensity of it. Ginger felt her shiver and mistook its cause. Leaning closer, she fitted her moistened lips to Hathor’s throat. Hathor stood transfixed by the man on the stage. She felt teeth brush her skin, but it didn’t distract her eyes back to awareness. At the same time Ginger kissed Hathor’s pale flesh, her hands found the rounded tilt of her confined breast. "Crime?" Servaes stated in ominous declaration. His word was as soft as a whisper and held the deadly pleasing tilt of an old culture. Pick me. Hathor breathed, unable to stop the thought as she watched him. Servaes suddenly stopped moving. His serious eyes turned from the stage to dart over the crowd. The smile melted from his delectable lips, replaced by a snarl of confusion. "How about we go find a seat?" Ginger offered with hot pants against Hathor’s skin. "Servaes can see you better if you are in the crowd." Hathor gasped in shock and pulled away. This wanton attitude was not like her. She didn’t want to sleep with perfect strangers, no matter how handsome they were. The spell she felt cast about her suddenly broke. A cloud lifted from her brain, a haze melted off her limbs seeming to run onto the floor to puddle around her feet. Shaking her head, she was suddenly very frightened. Her voice cracked, "I --" With a pull and a gasp, Ginger’s gaze hastened to the stage. Her eyes narrowed to glare in defiance. Her nostrils flared. Then, almost instantly, she lifted up her hands and bowed in remorse. Hathor thought she noticed the glint of extended fangs in the woman’s mouth. Ginger backed away from her. Hathor noticed an inner flash to the woman’s eyes -- pooling red with blood for an instant. The woman’s gaze filtered


back to the stage and she smiled like a punished child. Yes, Ginger definitely had fangs. The hairs on the nape of Hathor’s neck twitched in dread as she spun back around. Her heart began to pound faster in dismay. Her breathing deepened. The crowd had gone extremely quiet. Her blood rushed loudly in her ears as she turned to see all eyes on her--the intruder in their midst. Even the offerings stopped in their task to glare curiously at her. In a flash no longer than a blink she saw red trails of blood coming from the dancers’ fanged mouths, falling over their throats to disappear in the valley of their breasts. Their victim lay barely moving beneath them. In a daze, Hathor blinked heavily to see the blood was gone. Servaes arrogantly stood on the stage. His eyes bore piercingly into her, the brown depths glowing eerily with an unfamiliar light. Suddenly, a green tint flashed over the captivating orbs. Hathor felt herself caught up in his stare. Her lungs forgot to breathe. It was as if he was inside of her, searching through her thoughts, listening to her heart. Somehow he didn’t seem angry at her presence, just confused as if he probed her for something he couldn’t find. Her body hummed as if on fire. She heard his voice in her head, whispering words she couldn’t understand, in a language she couldn’t know. He opened his mouth as if to speak. All of a sudden he seemed aware of where he was. No words came from his curling lips. Hathor backed away slowly from the prying eyes, those with fangs caught up the red light from the stage in their hungry gazes. "He has picked," someone whispered near Hathor’s shoulder. Hathor shook her head slowly in denial. Her eyes stayed fixed on the Marquis. Her limbs quaked with dread. She couldn’t go on stage. What was she doing? She should have run from this place as soon as she walked in. Quickly, she backed into the shadows away from his notice. His eyes followed her, as if he could see her in the impossible darkness. A spell trapped her limbs with a numbing force when Servaes looked at her, making it hard to move. A slight frown overcame his features at her rejection of his attention. Then a smirk lined his confident lips as he turned back to the crowd. He ignored her. "Her crime…." he stated with a wave that encompassed the room, bringing the attention back to him. Instantly the penetrating eyes of the crowd were drawn away from her and Hathor felt as if she could once again breathe freely. She watched him point to the offering to be punished, as he continued, "…is that she denied her partner release after finding her own fulfillment." "And her punishment?" a man with yellow underwear poking out of his unbuttoned blue jeans yelled. His hand grasped firmly to an exposed breast of his fanged lover. The vampire leaned over to lick his exposed throat as she grasped firmly on his erect penis. "Her punishment will befit the crime," Servaes said, his thoughtful tone oddly impersonal. "She shall be brought near pleasure but denied several times until her body runs hot with moisture and her loins pulse with unfulfilled desire. And then we shall drink from her." The gathered onlookers voiced their approval, half in moans and half in panted cheers. The punished woman wailed as an offering forced her legs further apart. The sounds she made were filled with wanton pleasure. Servaes went to stand over her. Hathor watched from the shadows, mesmerized. Reaching his hand down, the vampire hovered his cold fingers over the punished one’s exposed womanhood. The woman tried to grind her hips up into his palm. He backed the pale fingers away from her so it was just beyond her reach.


The bound woman let loose a tortured moan, as she was denied his touch. Then, withdrawing his hand into the folds of his masculine chest, he nodded at his women. Instantly, they were on the tied woman, licking and poking at her flesh with their fangs. Their searching fingers touched everywhere but her seeking center as they teased her trembling skin. Hathor pulled back, terrified by the strong urge in her stomach. The club suddenly smelled of sex as the crowd tore at their clothing in a frenzy of excitement. Her tongue flicked across her teeth as if to find her own set of fangs there. Her teeth were flat, but she bit her tongue. Lightly, she touched her lips only to draw her fingers away dotted in her own blood. Servaes had wanted her. Out of the fifty or so people in the crowd, he had picked her. Seeing Ginger watching her intently, Hathor backed towards the narrow passageway leading to the entrance. The woman’s eyes were transfixed on her bloodied finger. The sound of Hathor’s feet echoed as she ran from the risqué couples beginning to fornicate before the stage. Pursued by the potent smell of sex and blood, her heart pounded and her head swam. She couldn’t make her wooden feet move fast enough. The bricked alleyway was wet as she finally made it into the night. The moon shone full and bright in the sky, glittering on the moist pavement like millions of sparkling diamonds. Leaning against the cobblestone wall, Hathor took a deep breath. Her blood rushed in her veins, threatening her body with its silent song of temptation. Beautiful pale skin and handsome brown deep-set eyes haunted her. The image burned into her mind, warning her that she was forever changed. Suddenly screams rang out from the hidden club--the sound of people brought to slaughter. The shrill cries jumped all around her, making her hair feel as if it stood on end. The noise shook her from her stupor. She pressed into the stone wall, too frightened to move. "Go!" Hathor heard Servaes’ command as if he shouted it in her ear. With a start, she jolted away from the building, spinning to look behind her. When she saw nothing she twirled, darting her gaze all around. She realized she was completely alone. The only noise was the beating inside her chest, uncommonly loud. Hesitantly, she leaned to peer down the passageway leading to the decadent club. Seeing a flash of pink hair, Hathor jerked back with a gasp. She mindlessly ran down the narrow alleyway, not knowing how she navigated the dark paths. She didn’t stop until she was safely home.

**** Go! Servaes opened his eyes, knowing the strange woman obeyed him. The heady smell of blood rose around him, gripping him with his hunger. Without appearing to move, his head whisked about, taking in all that happened around him. Fellow vampires fed on their lovers, their hands still massaging and gripping naked parts of the prone bodies as they drained them neatly of their life’s fluid. The bartender turned, wiping his counter with a lulling precision. The pudgy man lifted a bottle to his lips and took a drink of what Servaes could smell


from across the chamber as fine brandy. The man was a mortal, bound to them in service and long unaffected by the killings around him. Looking down at the reddened eyes of the fanged performers, he watched as they turned to him with satisfied smiles. Respectfully they backed away on all fours, moving with a swift gliding force, their lips dripping crimson with warm blood -- only a taste from their aroused victim on the stone slab. Then, as quick as a single moment of time, they disappeared from the stage, going to stalk their main course in the dark, overcrowded streets of London. "Mmm," the tied woman groaned in protest, unaware of all that happened around her. She moved her naked body restlessly against her bonds. Slowly, her eyes opened. With her came the scent of greedy longing and expensive perfume. Seeing Servaes above her, she smiled weakly, "Monsieur le Marquis, my body is on fire for you. Take me. I am yours. Drink from me!" Servaes knew he could easily wield his power over the simple woman. He could keep her suspended in a web of physical ecstasy, as he drank of the sweetened nectar of her impassioned blood, the sweet arousal like a drug to his kind. Just as he knew he never needed the iron bonds that held her in place. If he wanted her prone beneath him, he could have easily wielded it so with the power of his determination. Gradually, a wicked smile formed on his mouth. His eyes flashed and filled with blood, blocking out his pupils and the coldness they contained. He refused to drink from her, suspending from the violent need. Seeing his swarthy smile, the woman moaned louder. The others around them began collecting the lifeless bodies of their victims into their arms, carting them away. Some of the corpses would go into the dark waters of the Thames, others would find their way buried in old family crypts never opened, and still others would be left in the seediest parts of London -- mutilated. As they left, Servaes heard their directed thoughts in his head. Well done, Marquis. Why are you denying yourself, take her. Her blood is fevered. Until tomorrow, my friend. "Monsieur le Marquis, why are you waiting? End my torture." The woman lifted her hips to him. With an appealing pout jutting out her bottom lip, she begged, "Come inside me." Servaes watched her pleading with indifference. Finally, he lifted his hand to instantly still her words. Without moving his lips, he said to her, I know what you did. I know every detail. Her eyes rounded in horror. The passion began to drain from her, instantly replaced by a sensation of drowning. Her arms began to pull at her bonds, unable to get up as she imagined murky waters creeping up her skin. Through her frightened eyes she saw the liquid -- real and cold and wet. Her mouth opened to scream in protest. The water flooded in, choking her shouts of terror. Her lungs struggled to breathe. Her lips parted desperately. Servaes watched. To him she was just struggling in empty air. Her body writhed and racked. He knew her lungs exploded and smoldered in pain. He knew her ears burned with the never-ending silence of water, marred only by the sound of his voice as he spoke to her. He knew that she drowned, feeling every painful moment drawn out in agonizing slowness. And he refused to let her out of her torment. He refused to let her die. Slowly he walked up next to her, studying her calmly as her eyes sought his in terror. Their frightened


brown orbs begged him for pity. Her throat gurgled desperately -- transcended in airless death that wouldn’t claim her with release. Leaning next to her ear, he whispered darkly, "One hour, Madame. One hour for each of your five children you drowned last year in your car. The terror they felt for that moment tied to their seats -helpless and scared -- you will feel tenfold. And before you die you will feel the bullet your maid used to take her own life after you accused her of the deed. How do you like your freedom now, Madame?" The woman moaned and gurgled. Her throat constricted in cords of pain. Lightly, Servaes tapped her cheek with a long fingernail. The vampire smiled a charming and devilish smile -- so handsome that he could enchant any mortal to his will. But inside his heart thud in dull, even beats. He could feel nothing. Within him was the hollowness of death. Enchant any mortal but her, he thought suddenly with a curious frown. His eyes moved to linger where the stranger had run from them. He could still see the flash of her innocent blue dress and her slightly tanned skin -- glowing like warm honey in the sunlight. And her eyes, though nothing compared to the captivating gaze of the undead, were sparklingly beautiful for a mortal. Not that you remember the look of honey in the sunlight, he thought wryly. With a grunt of bored disgust, he glanced at his victim, still tossing about in pain. He could read the condemned woman’s thoughts, but chose not to. He didn’t want to hear how she was sorry, how they were all sorry when their deeds were visited back onto them. Standing, he knew he could deny his hunger no longer. The force of it gripped him, seizing him with need. If he put it off, he would go senseless -- attacking anything that neared him, no matter how dangerous the outcome could be for him and his kind. Waving his hand, he made another surge of freezing water rush over the writhing woman. He turned his back on her, blocking out the sound of her voice in his head. With the speed of darkness, he began to move. If you wanted the woman, you should have taken her. She shouldn’t have been allowed to live. She has seen us. Servaes stopped. Without turning to Ginger, as she pouted in the opening to the passageway, he flew to her within a mortal blink. The woman doesn’t know what she has seen. "How can you be sure?" Ginger asked coldly. "Besides, she is a mortal. And I want her." Leaning to her ear, Servaes whispered, "Yours is not the right to question me. You asked for asylum here. You will obey my will. Otherwise, leave. Go back to the countryside and face those you have wronged." "You are not our master," she whispered hotly. "We may put up with you because of your age, but we are not yours to command. The others might let you have what you want, but I will not. I am going after the woman." "I am the oldest, the wisest amongst you. And you have no idea the lengths of my powers," he hissed. His eyes filled with a deadly chill to emphasize his words. Ginger recoiled slightly, her lips stiffening. "Now question me no more. I mark the woman as mine."


Ginger shot him a bitter look through black eyes, but said nothing. She flashed from him with a pant of anger radiating all around her, breaking the chilled air with its fervent heat. Servaes was unaffected. He didn’t watch her go as he left to trail the nights in search of his own meal of blood, wondering why he bothered to lay claim to a mortal at all.

Chapter Two

A light, careless smile molded itself to Hathor’s lips, as she walked over the cobbled pathways of the Kennington House gardens. The old house stood proud and tall against the lush foliage of fall beauty, its Gregorian architecture a tribute to the tranquil flair that was London in the eighteenth century. The multi-paned glass framed by Palladian styled windows, the squared paneled doors, and even the carriage porch, were maintained as a testament to lasting elegance. Once, the home belonged to an affluent English family. A Duke of some such thing, Hathor remembered her aunt saying as she showed her to her room. Now, it was an affluent bed-and-breakfast run for wealthy tourists. Full, luxuriant lawns and extraordinary vistas flowed evenly over the classical period grounds. There was a stone-lined avenue leading up to the house, hidden with trees and blocked by a wrought iron gate to keep outsiders from wandering too close. Sighing wistfully, Hathor thought it quite possible to see a horse-drawn carriage come up the drive, full of air-headed ladies in their expensive silk gowns and regal gentlemen carrying themselves with manners and polite compliments. Continuing along, she crossed over a rustic bridge painted white. It overlooked a bountiful cascading brook captured in time by numerous bright flowers. Stopping, she leaned over the edge to study the water as it glistened orange in the evening light. Unable to help herself, she ignored her instincts to turn back before it got too late. She continued on the path. Already she had briefly explored much of the splendor during the day. There was a conservatory within the Italian gardens, statues carved from marble, and fountains with stone benches circling around the tranquil waters pouring from urns held by frozen nymphs. The look of fall shone in the high leafy canopies overhead. The oak and sweet gum trees just beginning to turn in brilliant color, contrasted against the never-changing constancy of the evergreens. Finding her way to a wooden bench near the tame waters of a fountain, she sat. The aromatic scent of flowers mingled with the stronger smell of the cool season. Staring absently, she didn’t see the nymph clutching her trailing gown frantically to her bosom, her stone eyes staring behind her as if someone were coming her way. Instead, Hathor found that her mind focused on the memory of stark eyes flashing


seductively in their radiance. Next to the memory of that one gaze, the gardens paled. She couldn’t explain how it was that one moment, one mistaken turn on her way to a small café, could affect her so. She had seen men before, handsome and beguiling. She had even dated a few. But never had she been shaken with so many feelings, as she was when she just thought of Servaes’ eyes. As to the club, try as she might, she could hardly remember a thing. It was like the fading cloud of a dream that she tried to grasp onto and savor, but in the end she couldn’t remember what it was she was savoring. "I’m just smitten with anything unlike what I know," she muttered to herself by way of excuse. She didn’t believe it. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to force the picture from her mind. "And that place was definitely unlike anything I have ever seen." Smiling absently she watched the last rays of orange sunlight hit the statue in silhouette. Almost instantly the garden lights went on, turning the fountain waters to purple and blue, lighting the pathways for any late wandering guests. Hathor knew that she was the only one wandering about. She was currently the only guest. It had been three days since she saw the strange stage show. The next morning she had gone looking for it, unable to get lost in the same way again. Part of her hoped to run across the actor during the day hours, if only to convince her mind that he was nothing like he portrayed on stage, thus getting him out of her thoughts. She didn’t find him, and in her thoughts he constantly stayed. Throwing her head back with a frustrated sigh, she eyed the pinpoints of stars. The evening air began to cool though it was still warm enough to walk about without a jacket. Stretching her legs before her, she inattentively smoothed her khaki slacks. "I apologize, mademoiselle, I did not know there was someone else within the gardens." That voice! Hathor stiffened, unable to believe it. Her heart began to thrash wildly in her chest. She had only heard him say a few words on stage, but the sound was as familiar to her as her own voice. She sat up straight, whirling in her seat to look at the dim path. Hathor half expected to find a ghost derived of her wild imagination. But there, outlined by soft walking lights and hidden partly by the shadows of night, stood Servaes. Unable to move, she stared at his tall unyielding figure. She didn’t hear him approach, strange since he walked on loosened cobblestone. She felt the pulse in her neck racing remarkably out of control. She wanted to faint. Forcing herself to breathe, she stood, careful to keep her gaze on him. Slowly, he stepped forward, seemingly in no hurry for her to speak. He lightly lifted his hand, letting it fall to the side in a subtle gesture. His eyes bore intensely into her, probing. "These are private grounds, sir," Hathor began. She was proud of herself for not letting her voice waver nervously. The man cocked his head, as confusion seemed to pass on his pale face. She swallowed bravely. He took another step. The light fell across his wan features. He continued to study her. Again he lifted his hand, letting it pass a bit higher before going to his side to rest. Stammering, she inquired, "Are you lost?" Hathor kept a careful eye on him. His carved lips didn’t move, though she had the faint impression that he was giving her a quizzical smile. His piercing gaze, bright and sure, watched her adamantly from their darkened, brown depths. For a brief instant she thought they sparkled with green.


"I can’t read your thoughts, sir," Hathor voiced when he didn’t answer. She tried to look calm, but the pounding thuds in her chest didn’t allow her to. Her lips trembled slightly when his eyes went to them. "How very droll," he murmured in a low, foreign accent. French, mused Hathor with a delighted shiver. There was humor in the tone, though she didn’t get the joke. Taking his time, he slowly moved his head to the side as if he could better study her from that angle. Finally, he murmured, "I was thinking the same about you." Suddenly, Hathor smiled brilliantly. Her laughter rang out like soft music. The sound took Servaes by surprise. It wasn’t often he was looked at with such kindness, without bringing it forth with his powers. The woman before him intrigued him. He followed the smell of her that first night, easily finding her house after his feeding. And each night he came, drawn by curiosity and something else that he couldn’t explain. Tonight he had yet to feed, but it was still early, and the hunger wasn’t too bad. Coming from his coffin bed below the city streets, he had known she was outside. Within a flash, he found her by the fountain. At first he meant only to watch and leave. But then he saw her soft features outlined by moonlight, the smooth curve of her mortal cheek as she watched the stars, the full pout of her lips -- lips he ached to feel along his cold ones until she warmed him with her blood -- and the gently unabashed glittering of her soulful eyes. He found himself drawn forward. There was sadness within her, an ache he could feel as if it were his own. He could feel everything within her, as if she was inside of him. But as to her thoughts, he couldn’t read a single one. And that is what intrigued him. It shouldn’t have been possible. In hundreds of years, it had never been possible. "Would you like to share the jest, ma petite?" he questioned softly. He didn’t come closer, but she felt as if he was right next to her, a hairsbreadth from touching her skin. Keeping her smile as the laughter subsided from her lips, Hathor said, "I’m sorry. I don’t mean to laugh at you. It’s just you can tell you’re an actor." At that his eyebrow raised slightly. "I mean, well, your clothes obviously," she explained waving a hand absently at his attire. Again he wore black breeches, tight and firm against his legs, outlining them with muscular perfection. His shirt was of white linen, soft as the gentle night breeze blew it along his strong chest. "What is it -- eighteen, nineteen hundreds?" "A little of both," he said in his swarthy accent. He felt his bloodlust deepen. Hunger edged his eyes. He forced himself to control it. He didn’t want to scare her. "I shouldn’t say it was all your attire. I do have a bit of an unfair advantage. You see, I saw you perform a few nights ago." Suddenly, she blushed and turned her earnest gaze to the ground. She felt like a chattering fool but couldn’t force herself to be quiet. "Quite by accident, mind you. I’m new to the city and got a bit lost on my way to some obscure café that I still can’t find. Anyway, you’re good. You really know how to work an audience." For all that it was a compliment he didn’t seem to pay it much mind. Surely, thought Hathor at his


continued silence, you hear such praise all the time. What does my opinion matter? You must think me a prude. "So are you working tonight?" she asked. Motioning nervously at him, she endeavored to sound bold. "I see you are dressed for it. Or did you just finish?" Servaes took in her every move. He found himself enjoying just listening to her. Her voice was soft and gentle. It struck a chord within his depths. He liked watching her mouth form the words, not knowing in advance what she was going to say. It had been a long time since he had to stop and listen to a human and most of his kind, for that matter, without already knowing what they would say and do in advance. "I have yet to go," he said at last. "Oh," Hathor mumbled at his curt tone and nervously bit at her lip. Swallowing, she took a step back and then another. "Well, enjoy the gardens. Just don’t tell my aunt I let you walk about. She has this thing about the public coming in here. I guess she thinks they will destroy it. It’s happened before. Well, it was good to meet you." Hathor turned, feeling like an idiot. She rolled her eyes heavenward for her foolish prattling and silently berated herself for speaking like a dimwitted fool. It was just that he was so handsome. He took her thoughts away and made her legs feel as strong as a piece of wet satin. And somehow in the midst of his eyes, she forgot who he was and what he did for a living. "But, mademoiselle, we have not met," he whispered in French. Hathor jolted, feeling his breath next to her ear and the light tracing of teeth and lips on her neck. Turning on her heels, she looked around in question. He hadn’t moved from his spot. "I’m sorry, did you say something?" she stammered in confusion. Feeling her neck, she rubbed it gingerly. Was she losing her mind? "I said we have not met." He took a languid step forward, repeating his words so she could understand them. His eyes never left her face. Hathor didn’t move. "What is your name, ma chéri?" "Oh, you really speak French. I thought that maybe you were faking the accent." She shrugged sheepishly. "Oui, mademoiselle. I speak many languages," he said with a small, proper bow. His parted lips worked slowly. She gasped as if something suddenly occurred to her. "Forgive me. My name is Hathor Vinceti. My aunt owns this house. I’m staying with her this winter to help out." "Hathor," he repeated, mulling the word on his tongue like a fine wine. Hathor nodded and held quiet. "So unusual to hear that name these days. She is an Egyptian Goddess, no?" Servaes took a step towards her, drawing to the end of the bench she so recently abandoned. Hathor listened, breathless as he added, "The celestial Goddess of love, who has the body of a beautiful woman and the head of a cow."


"Yeah, that’s me all right. I have often thought I look like a cow. But you forgot the headdress with the sun disk on it and, well no, that’s about it." She smiled charmingly. "Tell me, how did you know that? No one ever knows that. Most people think my parents were drunk when .0they applied for my birth certificate and misspelled Heather." At that he shrugged. Not bothering to mind his words, he said, "Some say my second ancestors were Egyptian, others think from India." "Second?" she questioned in confusion. She took a step towards him as she spoke. "Oh, do you mean on one of your parent’s sides? Like your mother’s people?" Servaes chuckled quietly to himself. He could barely remember his human parents. To think of them now, was near impossible. Not answering directly, he said, "I studied ancient myths for a time." "Are you also a teacher then?" she inquired. "When you’re between acting jobs?" This time his laughter was louder. The sound was low and seductive, not at all mocking. "No, teachers are too giving of themselves. I take too much from people to be a teacher. When I was younger I obsessed about the ancients." "How old are you?" she questioned without thought. Then, clearing her throat, she said, "Never mind, that was rude of me. It’s none of my business." "Come sit awhile before I must leave." His words were almost like a command, cool and smooth as he gestured to the wooden bench. It was clear that he was not a man who met with refusal or resistance. He waited for her to walk forward, noticing the hesitancy she tried to hide in her steps. As she neared him, his eyes went to her neck. He could hear the rapid beat of her pulse beneath her flushed skin. His eyes fixed on the thin flesh covering her artery -- so strong and protective, yet so easy to pierce. Hunger bit angrily at his stomach. Still, he was reluctant to leave her so soon. She stood before him, watching his eyes carefully at the close distance. They were more beautiful than she had first imagined. It wasn’t right for one man to possess so many disarming qualities. No doubt he had a lot of women. Men like him always did. Remembering what he was, she stiffened. But, the guard couldn’t last. As soon as he spoke, all reservations again left her. "Now it is I who must apologize," he stated smoothly. "I did not tell you my name." "Oh, I didn’t think to ask. I just kept thinking of you as Marquis Servaes. Not that I was thinking of you, I mean--" He smiled as he thought of his full title. It had been a long time since he used it. In a gentle whisper, he whispered, "Ah, yes. I am Lord Servaes, Marquis de Normant." "Right, your stage name. That is what I was trying to say. One of the people at the club told me you went by that." Studying him carefully, she realized her tone dropped into a husky murmur. Her eyes fell to his lips as they again parted. He seemed so near her. His skin was so pale in the moonlight, oddly so, but exquisite nonetheless. He stood so still, like he didn’t even need to breathe. And she was breathless. Beginning to feel the lethargic trance come over her again, she murmured weakly, "Tell me what your real name is."


Her eyes stayed trained on his mouth. Her pulse beat heavily in her veins. Her blood felt as if it was on fire. Instantly, she thought of him on stage, commanding the room, touching the naked woman bound before him. And he picked her. Or had he? Is that why he was in the garden? Did he come to finish what he wanted to start in the club? Was he angry at being denied? "That is my real name," he stated. He could feel her desire flowing in her veins. The scent of it drove him mad. His lips ached to part, to take her throat. His body ached for something rarer in his kind. It ached to take her. "So you actually changed your name to Marquis de Normant? You must really love your work to go to such lengths." Hathor blinked, forcing the mist from her mind. She suddenly became uncomfortable. To her, the idea seemed a bit extreme. She hoped he wasn’t an obsessive lunatic. "Ah, love is a bit strong. Let us just say I must do it to live. Without my work, as you so cleverly put it, I could not survive." Slowly, he raised his hand as if to touch her face. His finger hovered just over her skin, crossing before her full lips. He could detect the warmth from her heating the coldness of the grave from him. She drew back, almost frightened. Quietly, he added, "My existence is too lonely without the diversion of the club." Realizing that they both still stood, she hurriedly sat on the bench. Scooting over, she made sure to leave him room and still give their bodies space. She had seen the look in his eyes as he studied her. He wanted to kiss her, almost as much as she wanted to kiss him. But it was foolish. He was a stranger! A man that touched women on stage every night for money! And it was quite possible, by the looks of the club, that he was a fetish prostitute like the others. He could be diseased. He could be into some weird, kinky, porn cult. Even as her mind protested him, her lips spoke. "Yeah, my father was the same way. I, on the other hand, go through spurts." Hathor shivered as he easily sat next to her. His movements were so graceful, liquid, like he glided rather than walked. Turning his full attention to her, he continued to stare at her face. His body neared without appearing to make effort. Her eyes locked with his. For a moment, time stopped. There was danger in his nearness. She could hear the faint pounding of her heart as it beat within her chest. Then, there was a second sound, fainter at first, but it grew steadily. Crazily, she thought she heard his heart beating as well, keeping time to hers. Weakly, she asked, "How old are you, really? I mean you look so young, but you seem very well educated and your eyes -- they look so much older. When were you born?" She would have been shocked by the soft confession if she had been given time to think. But his nearness captivated her. Her breathing deepened. His face drew near. Without a will to stop them, her eyes flitted closed. Her head leaned back, offering him her lips. "I was born in the year 1657. But in your years, I am forever twenty-six." The words were light but unmistakable. When he didn’t kiss her, she managed to open her eyes. Within the depths of his unearthly gaze she saw the color shift from brown to green and then back again. "So you are a French marquis from … 1683," she calculated. Servaes nodded. Grinning, Hathor asked coyly, "Shouldn’t you be wearing a powdered wig, cravat and big puffy shorts over tights?" When he frowned, she amended, "Sorry, I majored in antique fashion in college. So is this role-playing what your clients pay you for?" "Clients?" he asked.


Hathor thought that maybe he didn’t understand the English word. Prudently, she said without candor, "You are a working man, are you not? A prostitute? My aunt didn’t try and hire you for me, did she? If she did, I’m sorry." His lips curled up in surprise. His eyes shone merrily. Simply, he answered, "No." "I’m sorry," she whispered, though he was not offended. "I just thought that you worked at an underground sex club." Her mouth tingled, but she was too scared to lean forward to shorten the distance between them. "Well, monsieur, I wish I could play there with you in your other century. I can see why you wish to escape this time. I’m afraid it is not as glamorous." "I play at nothing. I am what I am," he stated with charm and ease. Hathor gulped. Her eyes moved to his mouth. He parted his lips, letting her see the tips of his sharp fangs as they edged from under his pale upper lip. He waited for her to scream. To his amazement, she didn’t. "Vampire," she whispered in spellbound awe. Veins seemed to grow and form on his skin, but she didn’t notice. They reached for her blood, yearning to be filled. "Oui, mademoiselle," he asserted quietly. He wondered why she didn’t run from him in terror. But, as he felt what she felt, there was no fear in her. Only an intense longing she was trying desperately to force back. He could take her, drink from her. She wouldn’t protest. Slowly, his hand lifted. This time he allowed himself to touch her. Hathor gasped. She felt the trail of long fingernails as they grazed caressingly over her. His skin was unusually cold, as he stroked across her cheek to cup her face, and her flesh felt as if it were aflame. "I am a vampire. Are you not scared of me?" "I don’t believe in vampires," she whispered. His hand drew her closer to his mouth. Slowly he began to tilt her head back, exposing her neck to his bite. She didn’t resist him, couldn’t think to. "Regardless, I exist," he murmured along her throat with a deliberate chuckle. He could never remember enjoying himself so much. His parted lips grazed her as he spoke. He felt her pulse beneath his lips. Closing his eyes in rapturous anticipation, he opened his mouth wide and reached his tongue to taste her flesh. Hathor shivered in response. Weakly, she whispered, "Then why do you breathe? I can feel your breath as you speak. You can’t be un-dead." With unbearable torture, he refused to bite her. She was too rare to kill. He knew that some night he would claim her, but not this night. Her resistance to him was too original. He wanted to learn more. And for once he noticed that the boredom he usually felt left him when he was with her. His teeth drew softly against her skin in agonizing slowness, not sinking below the delicate thread of flesh. His body ached with a ravenous hunger. Drawing back, he groaned. Looking into her eyes, he said, "I do not need to breathe to live. I could hold my breath for a century. But I do breathe to talk. It is how the larynx works." At that she giggled. "You must have an answer for everything. Well then, Monsieur le Vampire," she whispered copying his accent, "I will leave you to your stage and to your own kind. For certainly there are more of you, I take it?"


Suddenly, he stood, drawing back from her. His body craved blood. The lust in him became powerful. Without preamble, he stated harshly, "I must go." "All right," she said, as nonchalantly as she could muster. Gradually, she stood. Her body shook, her legs were as if constructed of soft clay. His sudden abruptness took her by surprise. Unable to look at him for fear she would throw herself at him and beg him to make a woman of her, she turned. Servaes watched her back. He began to leave her. Then, against his better judgment, he said darkly, "Meet me here tomorrow night. Midnight." It wasn’t a request. It was a command. Hathor gasped. Spinning around to look at him, she searched the darkness in terror. He was gone. Unbidden, she turned her expression towards the dark sky. Then, laughing at herself for expecting him to be flying in the air, she turned and rushed down the path back into her aunt’s big house.

**** "Where have you been, dear? On a date?" Georgia called hopefully to her niece. She stood from the round chair in the front hall and placed her book on the seat, leaving it as she clicked off the light. The long folds of her thick cotton nightgown hovered around her feet as she stepped through trails of moonlight. Seeing Hathor’s flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, she waited. "No, I wasn’t on a date. I told you I don’t date." Hathor turned her dreamy expression to the window to glance out at the lawn. She searched for Servaes in the darkness. He wasn’t there. She wondered where he had gone. "London is no place to be roaming about unescorted at night," Georgia said. "You should really have a beau to take you around, even if you don’t plan on marrying him. I’m too old to go out to all those raving parties." "Oh, Georgie, you probably know more about raves than I do." Hathor wrinkled her nose. Aunt Georgia was nearly seventy, but she moved with the energy of a woman just hitting the prime of her life. If it hadn’t been for her sudden attack of pneumonia she wouldn’t have asked her niece for help. At least that is what the old woman kept claiming. Hathor had yet to even see her aunt cough, let alone need her help. She knew that truthfully, her aunt was lonely. Being as they were their only family left, she wanted her niece close. Mischievously, Hathor added, "I was out walking the grounds. You have this place locked up like a military base. I doubt any harm could come to me here." "Well, that’s true. Still, in my day --" "-- they still wore powdered wigs and corsets?" Hathor interrupted gleefully, thinking of her ‘vampire’ friend in the garden. Her skin still stung with Servaes’ closeness. His need for her had been very readable in his gaze. He hadn’t tried to hide it from her, unashamed with the animalistic urgings of his body. She shivered anew thinking about it. Undoubtedly in the morning she would scold herself, but for the night she decided she would enjoy it.


"Mm," Georgia grumbled, trying to feign indignation and failing. She shook her head as her niece teasingly askewed her hair net. "I’m going to bed," Hathor announced, leaning over to kiss the old woman’s wrinkled cheek fondly. "If any handsome men come by, feel free to date them yourself." Georgia touched the kiss with tender fingers as the young girl sprinted up the rounded marble staircase. Shaking her head, she went to shut off the porch light and latch the giant, paneled front door. Then, slowly making her way through the darkened room, she chuckled softly. She was no fool. She saw the look on her niece’s rosy cheeks. The girl had met someone special. Georgia slowly nodded her head in approval. It was about time.

**** "Servaes grows too confident in his place," Ginger growled, looking into the demonic eyes of her companions. Around her, in the sewers, severed human carcasses lay in the tepid waters. The corpses were cleaved in half by a wicked machete still gripped in her blood-stained hands. A head floated near her foot, and she kicked it away as if it were a ball. It bounced off the side of the sewers, making a horrible whacking sound as the bones cracked in the lifeless skull. Apathetically, she looked down at her most recent attempt and cocked her head, studying her handiwork. "Nearly clean through." "Here," Lamar growled, stepping forward. The sewer was so dim only the eyes of vampires and rats could see with confidence. "I can do better. Bring the last one forward." A woman, who had the misfortune of walking over a street grate at the wrong time, was dragged kicking to stand before Lamar. Her whimpers were ignored, as she pleaded with her unknown assailants through the gag in her mouth. Marred and bleeding from the fresh scrapes she’d received from her recent capture, she couldn’t clearly see the vampires standing before her. One of her captors pushed her down with a splash. Her body fell into the crimson sewage water, her fingers lodging into intestines still warm from life. Hands shaking, she jerked back, screaming against her gag. An unforgiving hand pushed her forward once more. This time her hand found the stone of the sewer bottom. Wearily, she braced herself and began to weep. Through the dimness, her round eyes stared in horror as they adjusted enough to see her blood-soaked captors. A flash of bloody flesh weaved into the thin stream of moonlight from above. Lamar waved the two vampires back as he took the machete in his hands. The red fluids made it slide between his fingers. With a sigh, he wiped at the blade to get a better grip. Already growing bored with their game, he said, "Servaes is one of the old. What can we do? I have no wish to fight him." The captive woman’s eyes grew round as she saw the deadly blade glinting in the moonlight. She couldn’t see the man holding the blade, but she could hear his bored voice, and she could hear the slight movements of a crowd gathered, as if watching her. Quivering in terror, her body released itself into the sewage water. She didn’t care. "If we band together," Ginger began. The woman whimpered louder. Her body propelled into action, she began to push to her feet. The vampires didn’t move to stop her.


With a heavy sigh, Ginger growled, "Take your swing, Lamar! Her cries give me a headache." Lamar lifted his arm. Bracing his feet in the water, he swung. For a moment the whistling of the blade was the only sound beyond the woman’s gagged scream. Then, with a thud and a tear, the deadly weaponry found its mark. The woman was silenced. Her body fell into the water. Lamar jerked the knife back and moved to look at his achievement. Other’s came forward to survey the corpse as well. The blade had ripped her in half, from shoulder to genitals. "Ah," Lamar said with a beginning of a smile. "Clean through." Ginger frowned. Tearing the blade from the vampire’s fingers, her hiss ended his pleasure, "It doesn’t count. You went through the shoulder not the skull. I win this round Lamar." "Argh!" Lamar growled. "Then bring me another! And be quick!" Ginger laughed, but denied his command. Stopping those who would gather another victim with a wave of her hand, she said, "No, leave it for now. I grow weary of this game. Let us play another." "What did you have in mind?" Lamar asked. "Burn this mess," Ginger ordered to those gathered. Taking Lamar by the arm, she led him forward. "Come, Lamar, I will show you."

Chapter Three

Morning brought with it a gentle breeze, stirring the vines of ivy that wound through the long white trellis. The vines twisted up the side of Kennington House, trimmed back before growing along the large expanse of balcony outside Hathor’s bedroom. Multi-paned glass fitted into the narrow squares of the French doors. The doors were painted white, blending neatly with the stone look of the siding. The balcony was one of the few later additions to the house, nestled in the back just above the gardens, but completely out of view from the front. Inside the room Hathor sighed in whimsical contentment, having dreamt peacefully of the man she met in the garden. True, Servaes was unusual, but who wasn’t strange these days? And she had to admit, the soft lull of his accented words, the fine cut of his antique clothing, the smooth way in which he watched her from peculiar eyes, they all made her tremble with nervousness and longing. He was graceful, just like her aunt’s house that she loved so much. He was a man from the past, caught in a modern world. He had manners and style, elegance and knowledge. And part of her wished she could get trapped in the past


with him. In her dreams it had been so. They strolled in the warm sunlight, surrounded by flowers and trees. He had touched her face gently with a warm caressing hand, handing her a flower for her hair. Lifting her fingers, Hathor touched her cheek and sighed. Last night his fingers had carried a deep chill with them. He is probably cold-blooded, she thought, not completely convinced of it. And last night was cool. The only blight in her dream-like impression was the performance on stage. She was reluctant to get involved with an actor. Already, she knew his lifestyle was more liberal than her tame existence had been. Yet, part of her -- a small part she refused to lay voice to -- was intrigued by it all. "Well, he’s certainly not a vampire," she giggled aloud. Sitting up in the plush Victorian style bed, she pushed the soft coverlet off of her legs. She felt a chill run over her spine. Her smile faded. The room was warm. Stretching her arms over her head, she suppressed a yawn. Not bothering to change from her sweatpants and T-shirt, she crossed over the thickly padded carpet to the balcony. Glancing outside, she decided not to open the doors. Then, spinning around on her heels, Hathor couldn’t help but grin. She felt like dancing. Running with bare feet to her door, she happily ignored the adjoining chamber leading to her private dressing room fitted with an oversized wardrobe and exquisite vanity. Above stairs there was nothing but rows of bedrooms. All just as lush and glamorous as hers, but none other adjoined by a balcony. She made her way down the long hall, fitted with brilliant woodwork and small tables with vases overflowing with fake flowers. Hathor knew that in the summer her aunt would have the maids cut fresh flowers to replace the silk ones when they had guests. Coming to the rounded sweep of marble stairs, she skipped down to the main entry hall, built originally to impress and doing so still. Its bright, marble floors swirled with patterns of white and cream, looking fresh and cheery. Victorian wallpaper, soft and muted, accented some of the walls, but mostly there was the elaborate dark carvings of the rose patterned woodwork. Halfway down, Hathor stopped. Regally lifting her head in the air, she placed her fingers lightly on the wooden banister. Stepping agilely on her bare feet, she nodded graciously to pretend gentlemen below, bestowing her most gracious of smiles on the rounded chairs fitted in the middle of the hall. "I use to do that very same thing when I first moved in here." Georgia watched with a fond smile from the entryway to the dining room. Her smooth voice still carried traces of a gentle southern accent from America. She watched as Hathor grinned. Continuing to wave, her niece nodded her head regally in her direction. With a huge smile she stopped at the bottom of the stairs. "You can’t enter a room such as this without imagining a grand ball with wide hoopskirts and lavish masks." "That is why I think you should stay. With your help I could hold such events again. The rich pay dearly to be involved in such glamorous affairs. And, with your talent for dated costuming, you could be a great asset. I’d bet we’d even capture more of the foreign market." Georgia watched Hathor’s buoyant steps as she crossed over the hall. "You won’t give up will you?" she inquired lovingly. "I don’t want you to take care of me."


"And what else are you going to do, Hat? Go back to the states? What is waiting there for you?" the older woman admonished with a firm set to her graying brows. Her wrinkled face pulled up with a soft smile. "You belong here, with me. So what if I take care of you a bit? I have no children to spoil. It will be good to have you here to run the place, see if you like it. You know when I’m gone I plan to leave it to you." "Don’t talk like that," Hathor said, not liking the idea of losing Georgia. She let her aunt lead her to the large dining room, with its majestic oak table large enough to sit two dozen people easily. Again the woodwork was dark and elegant and vases lined the smooth top at intervals. Running her fingers over the high-backed chairs as she passed, Hathor managed a smile. "I do suppose that I would like to see the ball, though it won’t be the same as actually having been there. You know, what we could do is hold a different time period every year and send out carded invitations. I’ll bet if you figured it out right, you could even book grand parties for all those Hollywood movie stars. They would drop enough money on this place in one night to cover the house upkeep for a year." Hathor eyes glittered with excitement. She looked hopefully at her aunt. "I should like it if they would. Then, we could close the bed and breakfast part. I only keep it open because I love this house too much, and it is the only way to pay for the preservation." Georgia chuckled. "I warned you that once you got here the house would get into your blood. Never did I dream when I married that British son-of-a-bitch, I would end up in a place like this." Hathor was not shocked by her mild-mannered aunt’s reference to her late husband. Uncle Charles had been quite the bastard. Though charming, he was a philanderer. He gambled and drank himself into the grave. Georgia dropped the Kennington name after he died, changing back to her maiden name of Vinceti. In fact, whenever Charles was mentioned her aunt deemed it necessary to follow his name with an obscenity. "So where were you last night?" Georgia asked, smoothly changing the subject. "I told you. I was in the gardens." Hathor blushed and couldn’t meet her aunt’s eyes. "With who?" Georgia questioned, with easy perception. "I didn’t see a car leave the drive last night." "Oh." Hathor’s blush deepened in color. She shrugged delicately. "Just this actor guy I kind of met the other night when I got lost and didn’t meet you at the café. I think he might have been trespassing a bit. I told him to leave." "Not after spending a little time with him I’ll warrant." Georgia’s eyebrows wiggled suggestively. She let go of Hathor’s arm and walked in front of her into a small kitchen. The kitchen was also a new renovation to the house, having been constructed as a preparation area for the staff. The original kitchen and servant’s quarters were in the basement. It was too inconvenient for the catering staff to trample up so many stairs every time they needed to reload a tray. "Is this the same actor you said entranced you?" Georgia motioned Hathor to sit at the small table they used for personal dining. Then, pouring a cup of coffee for her niece in a fine piece of china, she set it on the table. When the young girl blushed and didn’t answer her, she said, "So what’s this fella like?" "He’s different." Hathor hesitated.


"They all are, honey," her aunt drawled. Helping herself to a cup, she placed a breakfast pastry in front of Hathor on a plate of matching china. Sitting across from her, she smirked knowingly. "This is Europe. There are no other such men in the world as you will find right here in London." "He’s French, I think," she began, taking a sip of coffee. Then, with a slight moan, she confessed in a pained whisper, "and he is so incredibly handsome." "I detect a problem in your tone." Georgia leaned forward, placing her polyester covered arms on the table. She studied the girl in front of her, patiently waiting for her to speak. Sighing, Hathor mumbled, "I don’t know if it’s a problem, per se, but he dresses like he is from the turn of the century -- and I don’t mean the last one either. He does this performance…." "Performance?" Georgia inquired when the girl floundered. An interested smile tried to curl over her features. "He acts like a vampire. There is this whole stage show with dancing vampires and fangs and a naked woman tied to a stone ledge to be punished." A weakened sound escaped Hathor’s throat. "It is all very strange and sexual." Georgia clapped her hands in delight. A grin spread over her face, as she declared, "How avant-garde! I should like to see such a show. Maybe we should go tonight. You can, ah, talk to him after and congratulate him on his performance." Hathor thought of her aunt, with her pink polyester pants and white silk blouse under her pink polyester jacket, her cotton ball hairdo and reading glasses, trying to watch the stage. And if not the stage, Hathor thought in something akin to amused horror, then definitely the aroused crowd. "I don’t know," Hathor said carefully. She didn’t want to hurt the old woman’s feelings. "I don’t think I’m going to see him again. Last night he told me he was from 1683. I think he might be a bit delusional or in the very least obsessive." "Aren’t we all? So what if he says that. Is he charming?" Georgia paused until she received a reluctant nod. "You say he is handsome, and by the look on your face last night I can tell that he makes your pulse race. I think you should go see him again. It is not like you are getting married and bearing him children. Go have fun and find out what those sixteen-hundred type men are all about." "He asked, well more like commanded I meet him at midnight in the gardens. But I doubt I’ll go." Hathor sighed, staring at her untouched pastry. With a gulp, she finished her cup of coffee. "Coward," Georgia said. She gazed lovingly to soften the word. "So?" Hathor frowned. Ignoring the food, she stood to pour herself another cup. When she offered some to her aunt the old woman shook her head in denial and lifted her hand over her cup’s edge. "Let me give you some advice, dear. Life is very short -- too short not to enjoy. Take whatever this man can give you, one night -- two. If it is what you want, do it. I made the mistake of expecting too much. Before I married your Uncle Charles, the foolhardy bastard, I was in love with this wild cowboy who worked for your grandpa on his ranch. One night I had the chance to be with him. But, being the prude


that women were expected to be those days, I denied us both. I always regretted it." "You never told me about this," Hathor breathed in wonder. She slowly came back to her seat, staring at Georgia in awe. "What happened to him?" "He died in a stampede the very next day. The following year I married your good-for-nothing uncle. Every night when I lay in his bed I would think of that cowboy, wishing I had taken the chance and gone with him." Georgia let loose a wistful sigh. "What I’m saying is follow your heart, and when that fails you go with your gut -- or the place slightly below it." The last was said with an unapologetic smirk. Hathor gasped and had to turn away. "Really, Georgie!" "What?" Her eyebrows shot up to mock her niece’s shocked expression. Then, winking, she said, "Just be safe and protected about it." "Wait a minute," Hathor said, giving Georgia an unabashed grimace. "A year before you married Uncle Charles, Grandpa didn’t have the ranch. He sold it when father was about twelve, making you what? Fourteen?" Georgia giggled and shrugged. Standing, she took the untouched plate and put the pastry back in the box. Over her shoulder, she said, "It could have happened. Anyhow, my message is the same. Get out there, live a bit. Take it from an old woman, life is too short not to live it up." Hathor opened her mouth to deny the advice when the tinkling of bells interrupted her. Looking up into the corner of the kitchen, she saw the bell to the front door being pulled on its old velvet cord in place of a modern doorbell. "Are you expecting anyone?" Georgia asked in surprise. She absently wiped her hands on her pants, leaving the plate in the sink. Hathor shook her head, standing to rinse out her cup and place it on the counter. The bell rang again, this time more insistently. Georgia sighed, absently shaking her head. "I wonder who it could be. It’s probably another family of tourists wanting to know if they can picnic on the lawn and take pictures of their rowdy kids by my statues. I swear someday I’m going to post a sign on the front gate. Maybe I’ll get one of those electric things and shock them when they try to get in." Hathor followed curiously behind her aunt. Georgia slowly unlocked the immense front door, swinging it open. Outside stood a tall gentleman dressed in fine livery. He gave a regal bow, his mouth quirking a bit at the side as he saw the stunned older woman before him. "Mademoiselle Hathor Vinceti?" the man questioned of Georgia. His thick English accent was as proper as the young man could force it to be. "I’m Hathor," Hathor said, coming to stand questioningly by her aunt. The women looked at him expectantly. "Mademoiselle Vinceti." The man bowed politely. Without further explanation, he handed her a folded piece of thick parchment. Then, stepping back, he motioned behind him to an awaiting horse-drawn carriage. With a quick wave of his hand, he motioned to the driver. The driver, an older gentleman with a rounded face and almost square body, lumbered down from the top of the coach. He was also dressed in fine old-fashioned livery. Hathor held her breath hoping to see Servaes step down from the carriage door. She was disappointed.


Instead of Servaes, the man pulled out a long box wrapped with a bright blue ribbon. Carrying it up the front arching stairs, he nodded his head at her. "Where’d you like this, mademoiselle?" The second man’s voice was much more gruff and unrefined with a hint of a cockney accent. With a start, Hathor recognized him as the bartender at Servaes’ club. "Ah," Hathor began in confusion. She clutched the stiff parchment in her fingers and glanced helplessly at her aunt. "Over there gentlemen." Georgia waved them to the formal dining room. "On the table is fine." Behind the driver the first man emerged from the coach with three more boxes, smaller than the first but tied with the same blue ribbon. Hathor watched in awe, finally managing to ask, as they dropped off their parcels on the table, "What is all this?" "A small token, my lady," the first man answered with a slight bow, "from his lordship, the Marquis de Normant." Georgia smiled and quickly thanked the men as they left. As soon as the door was shut, she spun around excitedly to stare at her niece. Hathor gawked after the men in wide-eyed wonder before slowly going to the front window to watch them leave. The sound of horse hooves on cobblestone faded as they turned through the gates to the main roadway. "Well, girl?" Georgia inquired. "Are you going to open that thing or what?" Hathor glanced down at the card in her hand. Her fingers shook. She remembered a flash of green over brown eyes, followed by a hesitant memory that was not her own. It was a memory of blood on flesh. As soon as it came, it was gone. Hathor quivered anew. Her breathing deepened as she fingered the card in her hand. Turning it over as she backed away from the window, she noticed the wax seal stamped on the back. The crest was not one she recognized. Running her finger over it, she glanced in awe at Georgia. With a gulp, she muttered, "I don’t understand it." "What’s not to understand?" Georgia smiled fondly, excited enough for both of them. She didn’t detect Hathor’s sudden queasiness. "Either you read it or I will." Taking her fingernail under the dot of wax, Hathor pried it gently from the page so as not to break it. Her heart began to beat with curious excitement. Her fingers continued to shake as she unfolded the missive. The handwriting looked very old, as if done with a quill. The refined scrawl of the cursive lettering was very elegant. "It’s from him," Hathor whispered, "the actor." "Well," Georgia prompted impatiently. Clearing her throat, she read, "Mademoiselle Hathor Vinceti. Tonight you shall live in that other world. The Italian conservatory. Midnight. Servaes." Georgia squealed and clapped her hands happily. Grabbing her niece’s stiff arm, she dragged her to the formal dining room and deposited her in front of the boxes. With a gulp, Hathor untied the ribbon on the


first package. Again, her eyes flashed with the unmistakable image of blood. She jerked back from the package, refusing to open the lid. Wearily, she stared at the box. "Well?" Georgia asked, mistaking Hathor’s hesitance. "Here, help me with this," Hathor requested as she tried to pull off the big box lid. She tried to ignore the strange imaginings of her mind. Georgia went to the other side and helped to lift it. She took it up in the air, pulling it from her niece’s trembling fingers. Hathor gasped in wonder, pushing aside the white crepe paper. Inside was a confection of blue and cream satin and ribbons. Taking the gown by the shoulders, she lifted it with a heavy swoosh. The material was weighty as she held it up for inspection. A tentative smile of pleasure lighted her face. Her eyes shone brightly as she glanced at her aunt. Georgia shook her head in amazement. "Would you look at that?" Georgia said in awe. "That didn’t come from a cheap costume store." Hathor studied the gown. In front, the evening dress had three layers of cream embroidery edging the pale blue satin. The first layer fell to the floor, the second pulled the dress into a more form-fitting curve at the knees, and the last was just a bit higher for decoration. The low, square cut neckline was fitted with delicate lace, broadly stretching from shoulder to shoulder and across the squared back. The sleeves were short and puffed with a ribbon tying them down. If the front was beautiful, the back was absolutely gorgeous. A stiff sash fitted the waist with a silk bow above an open panel in back. Matching embroidered edges lined the sides of the open panel from bow to floor, with row after row of frilled cream lace sweeping out in a short train. "This is hand stitched," Georgia said, admiring the seams. "He must have gotten it from one of his acting sets," Hathor mused, trying to fathom how he could have known her size. The dress looked as if it would fit perfectly. "There’s more," Georgia giggled holding up a corset, a fine linen chemise and some silk stockings, also in the long box. Her eyebrows wiggled suggestively. Hathor blushed. "I’m sure it’s not like that. They probably came with the costume," Hathor defended. "Right," Georgia said slowly. She laid the undergarments back in the box. Sarcastically, she muttered, "A man gives a woman undergarments to wear and has no thought of seeing them on her. Sure, Hat, I’ll buy it and whatever else you are trying to sell. Open the others." Hathor laid the gown down softly. Then, leaning over, she took up a small box. Again tugging off the ribbon, she unwrapped the gift. Inside were two square-toed satin slippers to match the dress. Once more she shook her head in amazement. They, too, looked to be her size. She marveled at how he had done it. True, there had been lights in the garden, but it was still shadowed and dark. In the other box, she found a necklace the deep color of sapphires and matching earrings. Hathor swallowed visibly. She turned to her aunt and shook her head. Setting the gemstones on the table, she said fearfully, "I can’t do this. It’s insane. He thinks me to be someone I’m not." "Isn’t that the point of the fantasy?" Georgia asked, not following.


"Oh, Georgie, I mean he must think I am brave or bold or into --" Hathor’s voice cracked stiffly in confusion. "There is something terribly wrong. I can feel it." "It’s crazy not to go. When a man puts in effort like this, it means he is truly interested in making you happy. And so what if he wants a little fun with you? You should consider it flattering that he is attracted to you," Georgia put forth sternly. When Hathor frowned, she rushed, "You know what I mean. It’s a compliment. Anyway, you’re going. And you are wearing this beautiful Victorian dress when you do." "Really," Hathor contemplated weakly. She picked up the card to look for an address. There was none, just the short scripted message. "I’m sure it was no trouble. He is in the acting business. He probably just raided a prop room last night after work and had his friends deliver them to me as a favor. I’d send them back, only I don’t know where he is." "This doesn’t look as if it came from a prop room." "It must have," Hathor concluded, unable to believe anything else. The workmanship on the gown was beautiful. It truly did look authentic. "Are you telling me that his invitation doesn’t intrigue you in the least?" Georgia lifted the lid and placed it over the dress. Hathor sighed, gazing at it in longing. "You don’t have to sleep with him, just go out and have fun. You never just go out. Besides you’ll just be outside in the gardens." Georgia lifted the box easily and began walking from the dining room. "Where are you taking that?" Hathor questioned. "To your room so you can change into it later. I am not going to let you miss an opportunity to have an adventure. Grab the other boxes," Georgia ordered with a stern bark. "I’m going to see if I have something we can put in your hair to match." "I guess I’m going," Hathor mumbled, a strange sensation curling in her stomach. Moisture came to her eyes as she quietly placed the items back in their boxes. She was very careful not to ruin anything so she could give them back to Servaes later. Licking her lips, she sniffed nervously. Then, forcing her heart to drop out of her throat, she took a deep breath, gathered the boxes in her arms, and followed her aunt upstairs.

**** The night was young, the moon full and low over the lapping waters of the Thames. Servaes watched the outline of his next meal as the elderly man came across the abnormally quiet Tower Bridge. The gentleman smiled to himself, revealing a kindly face and even white teeth. Pushing his glasses up his nose, he paused, taking a deep breath before continuing. The vampire followed his prey as the man walked from the end of the bridge, down along the shore of the river. Servaes kept from plain sight, but closer than the man could ever detect. Suddenly, the man stopped. Looking around, he cut away from the lonely waters of the cold river. Servaes knew the man couldn’t see him lingering in the shadows even if he was to look for him there. He briefly closed his vampiric eyes and read the man’s frantic thoughts. Opening his glittering gaze with a


sound of disgust, Servaes shot forward. Before the man even knew what happened, teeth gripped fiercely into his neck, piercing his skin with a white-hot blaze. The man gasped and gurgled in surprise, unable to move. His fingers contracted in pain. He stood paralyzed in fear. Servaes heard the fast paced beating of his victim’s heart, stirring faintly as his own grew louder with the power of the man’s life. His blood-tinted eyes closed in rapturous fulfillment. His lips latched and sucked hungrily at the wounded artery until he could feel his body filling with the fluid that sated his hunger. With a growl, the vampire’s eyes shot open. Servaes unlatched his teeth from the flesh. The man fell to the ground, dying completely within seconds. Servaes felt his lungs fill with air out of old habit, though he wasn’t really breathless. He licked his teeth clean of the last of the flavorful meal, swallowing it. Warmth flooded through his limbs like a bittersweet harmony of old. It was hard to detest something that fulfilled him so completely. With a wave of disgust, he looked down at his victim. Easily, he bent over and lifted the corpse by the scruff of his neck, gripping him firmly with one hand. He studied the man’s lifeless face indifferently for a moment, turning him to one side and than the other. In the distance he felt a vampire dumping a body into the river. He ignored the creature, unwilling to let the being know he was also there. Bodies had been piling up in the old river lately. The London police were growing too suspicious of the crimes as they tried to link them together. Servaes made a mental note to speak to the club about being more careful. The young ones were always too eager to bring attention to their kind. And lately, since Hathor’s visit to the club, they had been getting reckless and impulsive. He felt the discontent in them. "Franklin, you’ve been a bad human, haven’t you?" Servaes whispered darkly to the corpse. The man’s dead jaw slacked open as if he might respond. Servaes’ frown deepened. With a raspy voice and eyes that still glowed demonically, he hushed, "Shall we go get your pretty, little granddaughter out of that closet and back to her worried mother?" With a slash, he cut the man’s throat open with his fingernail. Servaes laughed in bitter obscurity. The sound twisted and melted silently into the wind. He raised the dead man above his head and tossed him into the river with a splash. What was one more corpse for the police to find? It wasn’t as if the mortals could harm him. It wasn’t as if they could even find him. He would speak to the young ones about their habits later. But, for now, let Franklin be blamed on them. Dusting his hands in front of him, Servaes didn’t look back. The corpse dipped on the river’s surface, floating away with the current. The taste of blood was still in his mouth, as fine as a wine to his lips. With a slightest movement of his will, the vampire leapt. His body melted from view as it glided through the air with effortless grace, more powerful now that he had taken his supper.

Chapter Four


The soft lights along the ground brightened the cobblestone pathway leading through the quiet flower gardens. It had been a few minutes past midnight when Georgia finally managed to push Hathor from the house, and she only achieved that after poorly veiled threats involving rope and a wheelbarrow. Apparently, her aunt was willing to hog-tie her and cart her out to the conservatory if necessary. Hathor again hesitated, unable to force herself over the rustic bridge. She looked down at her tightly fitted gown. The blue material complimented her skin perfectly, reflecting out of her stormy blue eyes. The tight corset pulled at her waist to make it narrower than usual and pushed up at her breast to reveal a startling amount of cleavage. No matter how hard she tugged at the satin and lace, she couldn’t get the gown to cover the tops of her exposed breasts. "How did women ever wear such things everyday?" she wondered quietly. "I feel so naked." A lock of her hair came loose in the breeze. Deftly, she tucked it behind her ear. Her aunt had insisted on upsweeping her auburn locks and accenting the tresses with two of her antique silver hair clips. Taking a deep breath, Hathor walked to the edge of the bridge. The blue of moonlight danced at the edge of the shadowed lawn. Wind rustled the gently rolling grasses. Seeing the glass domed top to the conservatory, she again stepped back into the shadows. Nervously, she fingered the teardrop gems in her ears and then the heavy weight of the sapphire necklace dropping from her neck into the valley between her breasts. The cold gems glittered beneath her fingers, tapping rigidly beneath her nails. "I can’t do this," Hathor muttered at last with a shake of her head. She glanced forward in the darkness, not wanting to admit she was just afraid of what she might find. Already the Marquis de Normant occupied too many of her thoughts. Giving a dispassionate grimace down her gown, she whispered in dejection, "I look like a fool."

**** Servaes watched the anxious creature flutter before him. He was fascinated by her, like a child seeing a rainbow dancing in the clouds for the first time. However, he didn’t go to her as he lingered curiously in the darkened shadows of nearby trees. She had been pacing back and forth over the bridge, arguing with herself for at least half an hour. With a look of determination she would begin to go to the conservatory to meet him, only to change her mind and start to head back to the house. Her fingers lifted to fidget with the gown he sent her, to needlessly straighten the gloriously shining curls on the top of her head, to adjust and then readjust the jewels at her slender neck. Her hesitation was quite endearing, more so than her vivid beauty. He watched her long, tapering fingers as they wound together to stop from trembling. His hands wanted to reach out to touch her pale cheek, to see if she would again blush at his attention. Servaes licked his lips in anticipation. He wanted her. He wanted to taste of her. He was determined to make her his own. The blood of his meal was still thick and salty on his tongue. He could feel the man’s life in his veins. With it there was darkness -- a darkness that tried to consume whatever was left of his human soul. There were the dark deeds and intentions of the man slain, pumping hard, and calling to his own beastly nature. At any moment, the barely contained beast could awaken inside of him. He had learned to hold it


at bay. But, it was there -- waiting, biding its time, looking for a way out of its sinister prison. Servaes’ eyes again strayed to Hathor’s throat, long and straight and smooth, and to the pulse that beat a lulling rhythm in his ears. His lips parted, automatically wanting to taste her flesh, her life’s blood. His teeth begged to bite into the tender skin of her breast, suck leisurely from the rounded globe. He wasn’t just physically hungry for her blood, though it did tempt the hunter within terribly with its sweet smell. His body stirred hungry to possess her. Hathor was a ravishingly beautiful woman, and she looked so natural in the old fashioned gown. It was not from the era of his human life, but from one of his more favorite times -- before humans advanced in technology and sacrificed grace and charm for fast automobiles and laptop computers. Servaes watched with a wave of disappointment as she again turned around, refusing to go to him. He wanted her to willingly come into his embrace. He knew that within her depths she desired him, even though she didn’t understand him. When she was near him, he could smell the sugary fragrance of her longing beseeching him for release. He irately adjusted his slender jacket. Strangely, he too was a little nervous. The emotion took him so by surprise that at first he didn’t recognize it. "I can’t do this. I look like a fool," he detected her to say under her breath. Seeing her turn, he quickly darted from the shadows. Hathor’s eyes rounded in surprise to see him lounging easily against the ledge of the bridge, as if he had been there all night -- just watching her. Her cheeks flushed profusely, turning a darkened pink. She stood speechless and met his hardened gaze with a bravery her fluttering heart didn’t feel. He looked angry, or in the very least, irritated. His pale skin belonged to the blue moonlight, encasing the depth of his unfeeling gaze. Her limbs shook and tried to move, but she was held in place by a will outside herself. She couldn’t speak. A deep fear welled within her. For a moment, the dancing shadows tricked her senses, and she thought to see his face shift and change in horrific measures. But, when she blinked in a growing thread of terror, the image disappeared and a slight smile was tugging the corner of his mouth. With easy grace, he whipped the black top hat from his long brown hair. Taking it in his fingers he gave her a gracious bow, bending low at the waist. His eyes stayed boldly with her as he dipped. Then, after standing just as evenly, his fingers moved over his overcoat. He deftly unfastened two buttons so that the sides fell open to reveal a stark white, double-breasted waistcoat. Servaes paused in his movements to give her a slow smile. Leisurely, his hand glided to rest on the hips of his fitted black slacks. Hathor watched him, not seeing the overly long fingernails as they lay as unmoving as a gravestone. He was completely confident in the handsome figure he presented. Hathor felt her heart pound ferociously. He was confident before her now, like he had been on stage, like she remembered him in the garden. The memory brought little delight as she thought of the naked women he touched and the fornicating crowd he commanded. Suddenly, she realized she was more jealous than repulsed. She was intrigued by who he was, the life he lived. She was curiously drawn as to why he sought her out of so many willing partners. Her chest heaved, begging for air through the restraints of the tight corset. She could feel the night breeze on her skin, cooling the flush on her cheeks. Swallowing nervously, she couldn’t look away. Then, with a blush


that crept prettily to stain her features, she watched his eyes appraise her in a slow, seductive tilt of his lashes. "You look beautiful," he said easily, in response to her whispered declaration. Hathor didn’t know how he managed it, but within a blink he was in front of her -- whisking forward on plain leather ankle-boots, which didn’t creak on the bridge as her feet had. His eyes dropped to her panted breath, his tongue darting over the edge of his mouth. He knew she watched his lips, and so he parted them in invitation, careful to keep his fangs from view. Hathor’s mouth worked, trying to find the words to answer him. But his eyes kept her from responding. His nearness overwhelmed her, casting a spell over her senses. Inside a small voice told her to run, warned her of danger and death in his embrace. She couldn’t hear the warning over the sound of her thudding heart. Already the treacherous organ had given itself over to pure emotion. Hathor couldn’t think with him so close. His dark stare entranced her into its depths. His pale skin wasn’t as white as before, but filled with the tinting of life. She could see the color shifting within his probing gaze -- from brown to green and then back again. Unable to explain it, she ascribed the supernatural vision before her eyes to the playful trickery of the moon. Servaes intently watched her, not seeming to notice the time it took her to speak. Hathor stepped back, feeling his potent intimacy all too well. She broke her mind from the spell of him, shaking herself into answering. His eyes saddened in question, covering with what looked like a vulnerable light. Just as quickly, the look was gone. "Thank you," she answered at last in a hush. The words were strange after so long a silence. Servaes held back from her. He wanted to kiss her, was drawn to do so. But, if anything, the centuries had taught him a bit of patience. What rush was there for a creature that had forever? He could see her hesitancy. Although it confounded him, he accepted it. "Are you running late?" she asked when he didn’t speak. She watched him from behind her lowered lashes. "Oui," he lied, not wanting to tell her he had watched her. "I apologize, it could not be helped." "I guess I could say that I was already out at the conservatory, but the truth is I wasn’t going to go." Hathor smiled at him weakly, surprising him with her candid confession. Most humans were not so honest. "Why?" he inquired, enthralled. He once again closed the distance between them. Placing the top hat back on his head, he nodded to the domed building. Not offering her his arm, he placed his hands behind his back, clasping them together as he fell into step next to her. "Do you not like the gown?" "Oh, well no, it’s not that. It’s -- I don’t know. I don’t really know you." Pursing her lips together thoughtfully, she then said, "And I wasn’t sure about all this. I thought it might be a joke." "How a joke? I thought mademoiselle wished to live in the past. Are you not pleased to be doing so?" He stopped, turning intently to her. Everything about him bespoke of culture and refinement. Again his eyes flashed brightly, glowing in the night air. Leaning forward, he whispered bluntly, "Or is it my company you find distasteful?"


"No, not at all. I am overwhelmed with you … your gift, obviously." She tilted her head to the side. His voice sent chills through her, electric jolts of excitement and power. "Do you do this sort of thing often?" "No," Servaes answered. She could see in his eyes that it was the truth. The gaze pleaded for her complete trust, actually it demanded for it. "I have never done this. I have never found anyone I was interested enough in to bother." "Oh," Hathor gushed. With a natural frankness, she admitted, "I just don’t understand why you’re here with me. I saw the women in your club. They are very beautiful and exotic. And surely they --" "Yes, they do possess an outer beauty, do they not?" he allowed. He refused to feel the void within the young vampiress’, as he thought of his fellow vampires that occupied the Club. They all revolted him with their ignorance. They didn’t understand the beauty that could be found in the world. All they knew was their greedy passion for destroying and controlling life. They were Gods amongst men with no compassion or respect for which they reigned over. Hathor was taken aback. Weakly she nodded in agreement. Servaes turned and again began walking towards the conservatory. Reaching it, he allowed her to walk under the old glass dome overgrown with vines. Her feet tapped lightly on the marble floor as she passed through two of the Romanesque columns. The conservatory was a circular structure made of stone. The domed ceiling was lined with iron designs within the glass pieces. The wind whistled as it passed through a broken pane. Hathor shivered, all too aware of her companion. "Why have you brought me here?" Hathor wondered aloud. She was not receiving any of the answers she sought. Though, she was not sure what she wanted to hear from him. "Shhh," he coaxed, lifting a finger to her mouth. Hathor expected his touch to be cold like the night before, but it was warm. Her lips parted, panting against his finger. He gave her a tender smile. When she didn’t back away, he let his fingers brush softly over her cheek. He reveled in the slow pace of his hands along her skin, the uncertain light in her blue eyes when she looked so openly at him. It was strange to be slowly seducing someone without power over their actions or the knowledge of their mind. Over the years he could have taken many lovers, but the feeling in the act was lost when there was no expectation or surprises. A hunter would always grow weary of the prey that lays before him, unwilling to give chase. "Your hand is warm," she whispered, closing her eyes to lightly nuzzle him. His fingers ventured lower, dipping over her neck. "I just ate," he returned without thought. "And what did you have, monsieur?" she questioned, paying more heed to his caressing hand than to her own words. His nearness, the strange exotic smell of him left her spellbound in a cloud of confused emotion. When she was with him, nothing was as it seemed. Shadows danced in wicked taunting. Moonlight stretched and played and almost came alive. Servaes’ fingers traced over the bend of her lip, along her effortlessly arched eyebrows, down the slope of her small nose. She was so fragile, so mortal, so alive. It was the reason he was drawn to her. "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," he obliged. When she didn’t holler in fear and try to run, he once more lifted his hand to her smooth cheek. Touching her for a fleeting moment, his gaze dipped down her throat held by sapphire gemstones. Then, sliding his fingers over the bare neck to her shoulder, he took up her arm. He pulled her to a bench with him. Sitting with graceful elegance, he took her hand and urged her to join him. "So you killed someone tonight?" she asked lightly as she took her seat. Her tone was such that she could have been asking about the weather. "I kill someone almost every night," he returned, hating the turn of the conversation and loath to speak of anything else. 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, she heard a soft old music start 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. 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 automatically knowing she didn’t know the steps. 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 in a husky murmur, he said into her ear, "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 bore into her, enchanting her with their brilliance. And 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, until her head spun. Hathor knew that Servaes had no intent of letting her free. 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 scratched. 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. Servaes whirled her in a circular motion about the conservatory floor, her gown sweeping over the litter of fallen leaves. At times Hathor could almost see the twirling of other couples moving around them. She could hear 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 a 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 could feel 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 could feel the night air on her cleavage, could feel the firm lines of him against the tender flesh. "You’re a wonderful dancer," she sighed. Hathor smiled up at him, her eyes dipping to his lips. Her mind became drunk on his closeness. She let her fingers trail 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 shut. 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, couldn’t deny her the one kiss. He lowered his lips to her breathless mouth. Lightly, he rubbed against their willing caress. His hands moved to surround her waist safely in his arms. His fingers caressed up her back, tangling in her hair, loosening it from the clips. The clips clattered on the stone beneath. He parted his mouth tenderly against hers, running his tongue over the sweet taste of her lips. When she gasped, his tongue slipped inside the velvet parting of her mouth’s entrance. She moaned in pleasure, gripping onto his fine black jacket for support. The material crumpled under her shaking fingers. Passion shot through her at the taste of him. Her body quivered. 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, seeming to breathe 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 heating center. His body pressed into her so that she could feel 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 it. It inched sensually up the slickness of the hosiery, beyond the garter adjoined to her corset, to rest along her hip. Hathor couldn’t think to stop him. Her mind was caught up in the pleasure of his kiss. She couldn’t focus beyond the basic needs of her body. She was not equipped to resist him. She didn’t see the red need filling into his eyes. Servaes’ kiss became more persistent, capturing her unsteady breath until he smothered the air from her lungs. His fangs bit into her mouth, naturally seeking to draw a taste of her blood as it swirled in heady aroma around his senses, as she began to struggle for air. Her blood was overwhelmed with passion and would taste so sweet. Hathor gasped sharply at the unsuspected pain of her burning lungs and stinging mouth. She took back whatever control she relinquished to him, though it hadn’t been much. Her eyes shot open in dizzying surprise, seeing the stars disappearing from around her head in a flash of streaking lights. After blinking, she felt herself back on the floor. Her gown once more fell about her legs. Her lungs panted wildly for air, feeling as if she couldn’t breathe. Fear gripped her, urging her to flee. But her blood roared beyond control, weakening her heavy limbs. She couldn’t move, didn’t dare run. Servaes still held her close. At the same time she was filled with a peculiar strength that made her want to leap through the air and finish what her body jolted. Her loins pulsed, hating her for denying them. Shaking her head in confusion, Hathor stumbled out of her companion’s magnetic embrace, unsteady by the lack of one shoe. 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 could feel 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 been. It was like the intoxicating potency of the finest of wines 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. Hathor’s discarded shoe was clutched in her hand. Her eyes stayed firmly on his face as she leaned over to slide the slipper back on her foot. Next, she picked up the antique hair clips and pushed them into her wild hair. Her mouth throbbed. Hathor lifted her fingers to her lips, wincing slightly as she felt the wound he had made on her mouth. If not for the slick redness staining her fingers, she would have doubted they kissed at all. Servaes’ face


was too calm. She couldn’t read it. She studied the blood in confusion, turning her head to the ceiling dome. Clutching 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 smile, unassuming as she looked at him. Licking the last bit of blood on her mouth, 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 knew 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 on her heels to get away. "Wait," he said, coming up behind her. His hand fell on her shoulder. He felt her tremble. His body stiffened, his face turning instantly to 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. In a low murmur, letting the heat of his breath hit her skin, he said, "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. His eyes followed her rapid pulse beneath the sapphire necklace. The necklace 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. With a deep breath, Hathor turned to him. "I don’t know that I should see you again. I so thank you for tonight. It was one of the most … adventurous of my life. But --" "Then come back to me tomorrow," he broke in softly, his gaze pleading and soft. He started to move towards her. Another presence passed, closer this time to the gardens. Servaes stiffened, knowing he should go before any 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. Standing still and straight, he rushed, "I will send you another gown. Tell me when you would like 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." 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 chagrin in his expression. Had women always been this frustrating when you couldn’t read and control them? He couldn’t remember. "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. He forgot the others searching beyond the lawn. Frowning he hissed, his accent 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 laying naked for you in your club. I don’t want to be some actor’s conquest. So please, stop trying." "You’re not, chéri," he began. "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 are 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. And you are very good at seduction. But, please, don’t -- not with me. I don’t wish to be seduced. So go find an English simpleton 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." Her chest heaved in exasperation. He watched, motionless. The creamy thrust of her breasts would have drawn his eyes if her gaze didn’t flash with so much heat. He stood stunned, amazed at her rejection. 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. "And 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. But I would have the truth first. Until then, just stop messing with me!" Hathor panted wildly. Instantly she was 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. He moved through the smell of her blood as it mixed with the night breeze, scented with leaves. Lifting his top hat, he slipped it over his long locks. Then, without daring another glance, he left her. She watched him walk until he was out of sight. He said nothing. With a sigh of guilt, she rushed forward to stop him and apologize for her harshness. Her body still twinged with desire. Her mind swam in uncertainty. Her blood salted her lip. Hathor hastened into the dark night that lightened with a hint of approaching dawn. 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 traveled swiftly through the shadows, his body impassioned as he flew back to his lair beneath the city streets. Her words burned him with their ardor. He could have proven himself to her -- shown such terrifying horrors that she would have 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 you were reborn into his world, there was no going back. Many tried and several had even died in the search to end immortality -- 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. But he wouldn’t take her without her consent. Even if she did agree to join him, he wasn’t sure if 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.

Chapter Five

Vampiric eyes swam with the red droplets of their victim’s blood, stirring merrily in passionate declaration of divine radiance. Impaled upon a thick wooden shaft, the dull stick forced up an orifice that couldn’t cry out in pain, the terrified screams of those tortured had been evermore silenced. The mortal victims had finally stopped writhing in anguish. The last quivers of their soft forms unable to continue on, as their bodies found the blessed release of a hard death. "You pierced an organ," Lamar spat in disgust. The cooling corpses floated in the rancid water of the underground sewer, stuck limply in their horrific poses. He turned his sharp gaze away from a motionless woman’s body to glare at Ginger. The beauty of the vampire’s face was marred only by the evil look of his countenance. Quietly, he added menacingly, "Again." "Yes," came the voice of an onlooker hidden in the shadows. "She died too fast," yet another called.


All undead gazes turned thoughtfully to the mortal woman. Their collective vampiric bodies didn’t move in compassion or pity for her, but in frustration that they couldn’t have made her pain last longer. Her lifeless carcass hung like a puppet on her pole. The stick rose out from her throat, keeping her head thrown back as the listless green eyes were forced to the low stone ceiling of the underground sewers. The moldy, dank bricks were the last thing she saw in the dramatic end to her relatively easy God-fearing life. Her honeyed complexion began to match that of her tormentors, contrastingly pale with the red dress she still wore. "You try it, if you think you can do better," the vampiress growled in return, walking thoughtfully around the last human to die. With a swift kick that caused no effort, she struck the body in the stomach, knocking the pole over. The woman fell into tepid sewer water with a splash. Ginger gave a toss of her pink hair as she landed neatly on her feet. "It is not as easy as it looks to get the stick in just right." "Fine," Lamar stated. His features were covered with shadows and his lips barely moved as he spoke. Turning his attention into the darkness of the stone chamber, he commanded, "Go grab another, Vincent." "I grow uninterested in this," Vincent grumbled, but he left to do as he was bid. "Will you two never grow bored of competing?" Ginger chuckled, the dark laugh doubting she ever would. Lamar leaned over to grab the woman’s slack jaw from the water. Forcing her off the pole with a hard yank, he pulled her into his arms. His nose detected the scent of refuse on her skin, but he didn’t mind it. The vampires didn’t need to breathe and were not bothered by the smell. Looking down into her matted hair as her head hung limp on her neck, he whispered lovingly, "I think we should have pushed you more to the right, my love. Then we could have missed your heart." Ginger snorted in disgust. Leaning against the wall, she watched as Lamar began waltzing his companion to a soundless tune. His body levitated them into the air as they twirled. The corpse’s head flopped as he dipped her low over his arm. Just as humans wouldn’t think twice about killing a rat running across the kitchen floor, the vampires of London knew they were above the mortal race they fed so gluttonously on. The world was their vampire’s kitchen, and the mortals who occupied it deserved to be slaughtered for their master’s pleasure. The young ones derived immense pleasure from their lurid hunting games. They were babes, given the eternal gift of immortality, strength and power, and nearly unlimited access to an ignorant world which denied their existence as myth and romantic legend. And, like babes, they suckled the breast of humanity with an untamed hunger and greedily played with their food as they wished. With no one to stop them and no way to end the long stretch of never-ending boredom that threatened, they endeavored to outdo the march of time by proving they were deserving to be Gods. Only one fear lingered in the back of their undead minds as they roamed. It was an age old fear that every child must endure -- the silent apprehension of angering a parent. But the vampire parents grew disinterested in them and the nonexistence of a governing hand only succeeded in a growing myth that there was no ultimate parent of them all. It came to be believed that the council they were made to obey since their rebirth was a tribal myth told to keep them in line. For whom should a God have to listen to anyway? With tentative boldness the London vampires tested their bounds. They started the Vampire Club to stir the desires of their victims to sweeten the taste of the blood. Then they merely disposed of their corpses


in an increasingly sloppy manner -- dumping the bodies into the Thames without thought of hiding their bites. Most bodies decomposed quickly in the murky water, and no connection was ever made to them. Nearly all were content with that small rebellion. But some wanted more, growing mad with power when there was no backlash from the mythical tribal council. They continued with their games -- torturing and killing at will, playing cruelly with their prey. "Vincent is right," Ginger murmured in dejection. She parted her fangs thoughtfully as Lamar dropped his dance partner into the water from where they levitated in the air. The corpse dropped with a mighty splash. Ginger watched, as she continued, "I grow weary of this. I want more. There is no challenge in humans." "What of the girl?" Vincent questioned. He entered carrying an unconscious middle-aged man over his shoulder. Clarifying, he stated, "The one from the club." "I should like to find her," Lamar stated gleefully. "She was strong. I want to break her." "Servaes blocks her presence," Ginger spat with a bitterness she didn’t bother to conceal. They had looked for the woman with no success. She bent to lift the pole back into position as Vincent handed the man to Lamar for his turn. "He told me he would mark her for himself." "Wait," Vincent murmured. "Servaes’ hold will slip. Many grow weary of him. If not for his power, they would revolt." "And when he does slip, we will be there," Lamar said, easily comforting Ginger under the weight of his burden. Ginger smiled sinisterly. She knew both vampires were wrapped around her warped little pinkie. "The girl will come to us," the vampiress said. "Curiosity will bring her." "And, when it does, we will be waiting for her," Lamar added. His ominous face lit in the purest of pleasures. Ginger’s smile deepened. Vincent’s chuckle was joined by those watching. "Now hold that pole steady. I’ll bet you a newborn I can make this one last the whole day."

**** The finely irritating rays of sunlight filtered determinedly into Hathor’s bedroom from the balcony window to mark the lateness of morning. She groaned, protesting the daylight. Taking her pillow from under her head with a hard jerk, she crushed the softness to her face. When the thick pad stifled her breath, she huffed furiously and threw it to the floor. With a resolute sigh, she crawled from the large bed. She didn’t bother to check her mirror as she passed over to her private dressing room. She frowned at the antique dress hanging over the back of her chair, refusing to look at it for more than a moment. Grabbing a hair tie off her vanity, she pulled her stiff, tousled locks back into a haphazard ponytail. She yawned noisily. Her steps were less lively than the previous morning, as she trudged her way to the kitchen. Her feet were sore. Her legs were tired and, worst of all, her lower regions throbbed in discontent at having been so thoroughly neglected. As she passed over the stairs, her shoulders slumped with her tired steps.


Georgia was not in the kitchen, as Hathor made her way through the formal dining room. Sighing with relief that there was at least coffee, she poured herself a mug. Then, hearing a gentle singing from the backdoor, Hathor made her way out to the house garden. She succeeded in forming a small smile of greeting for her aunt as she raised her mug in acknowledgment. Standing, Georgia wiped the back of her gloved hand across her forehead with a sigh. A wide brim hat covered her hair, blocking her face from the hot sun. Her pink T-shirt was tucked in at her waist and she wore an old pair of blue jeans. Lifting a basket of flowers, she said, "These here are some of the last. I thought to put them in a vase so we could enjoy them before winter." Hathor nodded and drank her coffee. She squinted in the sunlight, sitting on the stone step leading from the house. Stifling a yawn, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply. The morning was fresh and pleasant. The sun warmed her face. "Are you going to tell me what happened or must I assume he’s upstairs as we speak?" Georgia teased. She took a seat next to her niece and nudged her in the arm. "He is not upstairs," Hathor stated. She couldn’t help laughing lightly at her aunt’s disappointed face. "And last night was lovely. He brought a CD player, and we danced for hours --" "Oh," Georgia beamed in girlish excitement. "What kind of music?" "Waltzes, gallopade, some other kind that I can’t remember how to pronounce," she answered obliging, trying to hide her blush with a yawn. "Servaes is a very accomplished dancer. And he is incredibly smart. He speaks different languages, knows about ancient Egyptian mythology, and seems well traveled and experienced." "So when are you going to see him again?" "I think he is a bit much," Hathor said. She began to finger her coffee mug, swirling the dark drink in circles. As nonchalantly as she could muster, she said, "I don’t know that I’ll go back out with him." "Why on earth not?" The older woman’s eyes rounded in surprise. "He sounds absolutely charming." "He is. But I sort of got scared and yelled at him," Hathor admitted. She slowly stood, before reaching to help her aunt to standing. Georgia swatted at her niece’s hand, doing it herself. She leaned over to pick up her basket. "That doesn’t sound like you. You must really like him if you’re pushing him away so soon." Georgia led the way back into the house. "Yeah, I do, Georgie. I’ve never met anyone like him. In some strange way it is almost like we have known each other for years." Hathor’s voice was wistful with longing. Her feet shuffled along the floor. "And when I’m with him, I get the feeling he feels the same way." "Then what is the problem?" Georgia shot. "What if I’m wrong?" Hathor responded in exasperation. It was mostly directed inward. "I don’t want to be played for a fool."


"You could invite him over for dinner. I’ll be happy to cook," Georgia offered, hopeful to get a look at her niece’s mystery man. "Then I could watch him for you and give you my opinion." "I don’t know," Hathor mumbled. "It is just that he is so incredibly handsome --" "You’ve mentioned that, dear," Georgia interjected. "-- and I know that he must have women trailing after him everywhere he goes," she continued, pretending like the older woman didn’t speak. "And you got scared and pushed him away because you didn’t think that a charming, smart, handsome man could possibly be interested in you," Georgia concluded. "Yes," Hathor muttered feebly. "That is it exactly. I can’t compete." "Is he asking you to compete? Surely he is interested if he went to all this trouble to get you to see him. How many men would go to such lengths just to make you happy on a first date? What other man, alive or dead, can you think of that would know exactly what kind of evening you would like, especially with only having met you?" "None, but that is what frightens me. If he can read me like that and I buy into it, what happens if he is not sincere? What happens if I fall in love with him? Because I can see it happening, Georgie. I’ve never felt so strongly so fast. I have never felt so strongly period. I can’t take another disappointment. I can’t take finding out the man I love is with someone else." "It’s not your fault what happened between you and Tom, Hat." Georgia sighed. She knew the girl to be more reserved since breaking off her engagement to her on and off high school and college sweetheart. "And it is for the best. He was never right for you." "I know. I was with him so I would have an excuse not to date anyone else. Listen, I don’t want to talk about it." Hathor couldn’t finish her coffee so she poured it into the sink. She stared at the dark trails over white porcelain before turning on the water. Absently, she ascertained, "Shouldn’t we be drinking tea or something? I always feel like we will be arrested." "Ah, tea is overrated. Besides, when there are guests we have teatime everyday promptly at four," Georgia responded with a pat to her niece’s shoulder. She knew that Hathor needed to talk of something else. The poor girl had been delivered some very hard blows when it came to men. "Why don’t you go take a nice warm bath and get dressed? I plan to take you out to town today. What is the point of having all this money if we don’t go shopping?" "All right," Hathor agreed. "I need to bring that dress by the cleaners anyway so I can give it back. Servaes said to keep it, but I can’t do that. I don’t want him to get in trouble if it comes up missing from a prop room. Besides, it is a shame for it never to get used again." "Hum," Georgia answered, thinking that for a girl who claimed to not want to talk about Servaes, she was doing a poor job of it. "So what all are we doing today?" Hathor asked, fingering her messy hair. "I’m taking you to my spa for a haircut and manicure."


"Spa? Do they douse you in mud and make you lie still for hours with cucumbers on your eyelids?" Hathor’s forehead wrinkled in distaste. She glanced doubtfully at Georgia. "There is nothing like a seaweed mud wrap to make you feel inspired," Georgia said with a wink. "Maybe it will help build your confidence." "Ugh, no thanks." Hathor walked to the door. "You can keep your kelp. I’ll use soap. But I will take the haircut. I need one." Georgia giggled, her voice ringing with delight as Hathor made her way upstairs. Calling behind the young girl, she said, "All right, no mud wrap this time. But someday you have just got to try it!"

**** "And he took you dancing?" the red-haired beautician gawked openly in amazement. Her slender body moved with energetic grace as her fingers slipped through the wet tresses of Hathor’s hair. Her lips puckered as she lifted her shears to gently trim off the ends. Hathor watched her quietly, noticing that the woman, like every other cosmetologist working in the salon, wore too much make-up and hairspray. Yet, somehow, the excess fitted them. Shaking her head, the woman waved over a few of her friends from nearby stations. "Sara, Nan, you have got to hear this." Nan, a stout woman with an energetic walk and dyed, black hair that sprouted about her head in short curls, smiled as she took a seat in a nearby salon chair. Her stiff British voice clipped, "What’s this Candi?" "This one," Candi answered, her voice softer than her friend’s. She turned to Hathor in her chair. As she again lifted her client’s brown-red locks into her comb, she waved her cutting shears around in animated motions. Proceeding, she gossiped, "had a date last night. This bloke shows up in a top hat, an old fashioned tux and some old music and takes her dancing in a garden. And that’s not the half of it! Look in that box. Earlier in the day, he sends her this dress and shoes --" "And a corset and chemise," piped in Georgia, watching her niece’s blushing face. Georgia lifted the lid from her dryer and made her way over to better hear. She had been only too happy to confess the whole story while Candi rolled her hair into a curler set. "He had it delivered by two servants in a carriage. Very handsomely done." Hathor glanced uncomfortably around the fashionable London parlor. The metal edged walls of cut out circles and the trendy posters, sporting haircuts she’d never seen on a living person, surrounded her, offering no reprise from the gossip. The cosmetologists sighed and gushed excitedly. It was early afternoon and most of their coworkers looked to be on a lunch break. "So what happened?" Sara breathed dreamily. "She turns him away at the end of the night!" Candi announced in disbelief. "And he wasn’t even that-way," Georgia offered with a meaningful twist of her hand. "He liked her." The women giggled. Hathor glanced at her aunt in open-mouthed astonishment.


"If he was as cute as you say, I would have dragged him into my bed," Candi submitted, "and given the bloke a proper send off." "Can we see the dress?" Sara asked with a shy smile. "Yeah, go ahead!" Georgia got up and went over to her shopping bags. "We just picked it up from the cleaners next door so be careful." As the women lifted the lid to the box, Georgia dug into her shopping bag. "And here, look at this." She handed a box over to the women. Hathor frowned. She recognized it as the jeweled necklace he had given her. Georgia had shown them to almost everyone they encountered. Nan looked at the jewelry as Sara set the lid back over the dress with an exclamation of awe. Nan’s plump fingers ran over the cool blue stones. Sara came over and glanced around her friend’s shoulder. "Here," Sara said. "Let me see that." Nan handed it to her. "Done!" Candi announced, whipping the cape off Hathor’s shoulders. "Are you sure you don’t want me to dry and style it?" "No, I’ll manage," Hathor answered. "Oh, my!" exclaimed Sara suddenly. "These are real!" "What?" Hathor gasped, finally deeming to join the conversation. She got out of the chair and pulled her wet hair back into a ponytail at the nape of her neck. "No, they are just great fakes." "No," Sara shook her head. "My father is an antique dealer. I use to help him appraise jewels and paintings for the museum collectors. This necklace is very old. You can tell by the way the settings are fashioned together." As she spoke, she got up and went to her purse. Taking out an eye loop to better look, she said, "Yes. And these jewels are very real. I would say France, maybe Italy, sixteen, seventeen hundreds. The fakes don’t look like this." "You are such a bloody snob!" Nan exclaimed, with a poke to Sara’s side. Sara swatted her away. Nan laughed. "But that’s not possible," Hathor denied, ignoring the banter. Narrowing her gaze to study the gems, she declared, "They are fakes. You’re wrong." "Well, it has been a long time since I’ve appraised, but I don’t think I am. If I were you, I’d keep them in a very safe place. If I’m right, they’re worth a lot of money." Sara sighed wistfully, giving the gems over to Georgia who quickly stuffed them back in the box and shoved them into her purse for safekeeping. She kept the purse hugged on her lap. Helplessly, Hathor looked at Georgia, who could only direct a weak shrug in her direction. Hathor’s knees weakened, her face paled. Suddenly, the front doors burst opened and a group of chattering beauticians came in. Their animated talk broke into the stunned silence.


"What’s going on?" Candi asked. "You’re late." "We were just hav’n a pint at the pub watchin’ the news," one of the women chimed in as the group hurried past to the back. "You know that poor little girl that’s been missing since last week?" a tall willowy woman inquired, stopping to lean on the station. Her pink hair was striped with lavender. Catching her reflection in a mirror, she licked her fingers and began pulling at her bangs to straighten them. "Oh, did you hear about that?" Candi questioned, waiting to watch Hathor shake her head in denial. "This little four-year-old just disappeared right out of her mother’s house on the east end. Snatched from her bed without a trace! Mother’s had a hard time of it. If someone took my son, I don’t know what I’d do." "Anyway," the willowy woman interrupted, finishing with her hair and moving on to touch up her lipstick. "They found her. She just turned up last night in her parent’s dooryard. No one knows how she got there. They said she was pretty beaten up but that there were no signs of molestation." "Thank God for that," Nan interjected with a sorrowful shake of her head. "But that’s not the strange thing. They said that in her hand she was carrying a note telling them where they could find the teddy bear that she had when she was abducted. It was in her grandfather’s closet. It seemed the old guy locked her up or something. They searched his house and found kiddy-porn on his bed. The guy’s missing, and there is an alert out for him for questioning. Could you imagine if he walked in here? I’d grab the sick bas --" "Ugh," Sara spat in disgust, to stop the other woman’s words. "How could anyone…?" Candi shivered. "The grandfather’s name in Franklin St. James, or some such thing," the willowy storyteller finished. She turned to lean her backside on the countertop, pushing her makeup back into her black smock. "I hope they find him and throw him in the river. He should be shot." Franklin. He was a bad man. Hathor froze. Servaes subtle words echoing in her ear. She gulped. Surely, he didn’t actually kill him. It had to be a coincidence. "Sick bugger," Nan mumbled. Standing, she walked back to the break room with the other chattering ladies, no doubt wanting to get her say in. Hathor swayed on her feet. She sat quickly in a nearby chair, not wanting to believe what she heard. Could it be she spent the night with some kind of bizarre hero? Or was he a killer? She numbly waited as Georgia’s hair was unrolled and styled to a big, round, puffy ball. She couldn’t move. Her heart fluttered wildly, her hands shook and her mind reeled in feverish denial. The gossipy hairdresser moved onto a new subject, keeping her aunt’s attention captivated with the latest happenings of London Town. Hathor was glad that they paid her no mind, sure if they asked her opinion she would burst into confused tears. Already Servaes invaded her every thought. She was falling hard and didn’t like it. Hathor’s hands continue to shake. She clutched them together to keep them still. Her throat constricted


with mixed emotions. As she closed her eyes to block out the sunlight streaming in from the window, she shivered. It was Servaes’ handsome face she saw and his passionate kiss she felt against her skin. When she was with him, she was scared. But, he didn’t feel like a killer to her. He didn’t feel wrong. Please, don’t let me fall for him, thought Hathor almost like a prayer. Don’t let me fall in love. Not with him.

**** Hathor passed the day in a haze, doing her best to smile for her aunt. But, by the end of the shopping trip, Georgia knew that her niece was deeply shaken by her mysterious man. After leaving the beauty parlor, Georgia insisted that they go to a jeweler and ask about the necklace. It was as Sara said. The jewels were very real and very old. Georgia lied and told the man that the stones were family heirlooms. Hathor left her aunt in her bedroom to take a nap, going to her own bedroom to wait for the sunset. Her heart skipped as she wondered if Servaes would come back to visit her, despite her harsh words to him. She knew she needed to talk to him. She needed to know what was going on. Was he some rich Marquis living an elaborate fairy tale life? Did he have anything to do with the missing pervert? Would he forgive her and kiss her again, making her forget all her questions? Spending the evening straightening her hair and bothering with makeup, Hathor’s eyes constantly strayed to the balcony waiting for darkness. Servaes would only come if it was night. She found she didn’t really mind it. Finally, as the sun lowered in the distance, throwing the land in a brilliant display of orange and red, Hathor slipped on a slender cut dress of cream floral lace design. She watched the sunset from her balcony before slowly making her way downstairs and out the front door undetected by her aunt. As she crossed over the garden paths, caressed by the gentle breeze of night, she sighed. Making up her mind that, if Franklin was what they said he was, then he deserved to be dead. And, if Servaes were responsible, she would listen to what he had to say about it and not automatically overreact. For some reason that she couldn’t ascertain, she was unafraid of him. His eyes haunted her with chills. His body drove her to distraction. His voice echoed hauntingly around her until her body trembled with intense longing. He was in her dreams, in newly formed memories, in memories she couldn’t have really had. He was her mystery, her unsolved enigma. She was not afraid. Going to the bench where he first spoke to her, she sat and waited. She listened to the insects buzzing in the distance, listened to the wind howling above in the trees, the sound of water in the fountain. She waited as the moon reached far into the sky, marking the slow passing of time. "If he comes, I will give myself to him," she murmured with tears in her eyes. "I will do what Georgia said and take what he can offer. Then I will never regret not going for it. If he doesn’t come, well then it wasn’t meant to be and I should be glad for it." Her feet tapped nervously on the cobblestone pathway. She closed her eyes, wondering what he would look like naked. What would he do to her? How would his warm fingers feel against her flesh? Her lips trembling, she whispered, "I don’t care what he wants to pretend to be. If he wants to be a vampire and only come out at night then let him. I’ll change my schedule. The world is crazy. Why can’t he be what he


wants, so long as it makes him happy? I want to be crazy too." As the hours passed and he didn’t show, her heart sunk deeper into the pit of her stomach. She knew that the feelings swirling around in her were more than just a physical attraction. It was a connection, one she couldn’t explain or reason. Servaes invaded her soul with charm and sophistication, and she chased him away because of her foolish fears. The night crept until finally the twilight came slowly in a display of pink and reds, bringing sadness with it. Hathor stood, having restlessly snoozed on the stone bench. She made her way back inside the house and into her bed. Crying out in agony, her mind chanted, He didn’t come. He didn’t come. He might never come again.

**** Hathor spent the next several days in a state of half consciousness. She couldn’t stop herself from wandering out to the garden each night, deeming only to stay until midnight and leaving for bed each time at half past one. Servaes didn’t come to her again, and each night she would determine that it wasn’t meant to be. The day caught her looking out of the front window, watching for a carriage to deliver a message, to pick up the gown. One never came. Pulling the drapes back for the twelfth time in a half-hour, Hathor sighed. She looked longingly down the stone drive to the iron gate. Her ears strained for the sound of horse’s hooves. Occasionally a car would pass by, never slowing to come in. "There you are," Georgia stated. "I thought you might still be here." "I was reading," Hathor lied, "and I thought I heard something outside." "Hum," Georgia answered thoughtfully. She was no fool. She knew her niece waited for a man who was respecting her request and staying away. "Is anyone there?" "No," Hathor sighed in heavy melancholy. She dropped the drape and turned back around. In surprise, she eyed her aunt’s packed suitcases. "Are you leaving?" "Yes, I just got a call from an old, dear friend of mine. Her husband’s got cancer pretty bad in his stomach. I’m going up to Sheffield for a week to take care of him while she visits her grandchildren in Edinburgh. I left some numbers for you in the kitchen just in case." Georgia smiled, going to give her a quick hug. Then, digging in her purse, she handed over a large set of keys. "Do you think you’ll be able to watch the house while I’m gone?" "Sure." "Good. Remember the cleaning crew comes next Tuesday. Ms. Quaken has a key to the back door so don’t worry about being here. Also…." Hathor listened as Georgia rattled off her last minute instructions. Turning to the window, she saw a car come up the drive to pick up her aunt.


Georgia sighed. "I think that’s it. Take the car if you need to." "I’ll probably just walk, but thanks." Hathor smiled, giving the old woman a hug. "Take care, and have as much fun as you can, save the circumstances." Georgia picked up her bags. Hathor opened the door for her. Her aunt motioned to the driver as she sat her suitcases on the top steps. Then, turning to Hathor, she said, "Don’t wait for him to come to you. Go to him. Go to his club. Return the dress if you must have an excuse. But go. Don’t put it off. And if he’ll forgive you, bring him here to stay with you this week. I don’t mind." "I don’t remember where the club is," Hathor admitted, dejected. "Your feet do. Follow them. They’ll get you lost the same way." Georgia hugged her again. "It might take them longer, but they know." With those quick words, she was gone. Hathor watched the car pull away, lifting her hand to wave at her aunt as the woman leaned a kiss out the window. Smiling, Hathor nodded with determination. "You’re right, Georgie. It is time I went to see him."

Chapter Six

The intermediate street lamps lined the roads of London’s back alleys, brightening the damp, dark night. Paved passageways turned into stone-lined walks. Wooden signs, boasting the numerous ancient crests and coat-of-arms from various family lines, hung before old houses and businesses. They were carved into banners and shields. Their lions, phoenixes and flowers looked so much of the past, each unique and beautifully different as they swayed proudly in the wind. Hathor studied each one as she passed but couldn’t tell them apart. The flat faced buildings compacted together and boasted everything from tobacco clubs to small cafés to exotic restaurants and pubs. The busy streets faded into partially crowded neighborhoods, to completely abandoned alleyways. Most of the streets Hathor chose were too small for cars to pass through, twisting into an incredible maze of hidden lanes. Archways tilted overhead, some of them so dark and long that she could only see the light on the other side, as she made her way through the tunnel-like brick walks. Letting her feet get lost as Georgia suggested, she refused to look at the street signs. Instead, she searched for any familiar bend that would take her to where she longed to go. Absently, she wandered. All of a sudden, she noticed a wrought iron street lamp in the middle of a tapering path. She vaguely remembered admiring it on the way to meet her aunt. Hurrying forward past the light, she saw a narrow alley and smiled. She had found it.


Hathor’s bold steps slowed, careful not to echo too loudly. She turned down the alley, stepping several yards into the darkness. Swallowing nervously, she glanced around. In warning, her fingers shook and the hairs on her neck stiffened. She didn’t recall the alleyway being so dark. The smile fell suspiciously from her features. Her feet stopped. Fearfully, she looked up. Stoic figures, outlined by city lights, crouched unchangingly above her like statues, except for the flapping of coats on the wind. She would have thought them gargoyles but for the fact that every time she squinted and blinked another one would appear to join the rest. Hathor took a step back, inching deliberately the way she had come, careful not to draw attention to her presence. The statues didn’t move. She kept her eyes turned up. One by one, Hathor could sense the silhouetted heads moving to follow her. Their eyes began to shine green and glinted dimly in the darkness. The thin probing dots of light held still like the afterglow of dead fireflies. Turning, she darted as if to run, only to freeze when she saw a dark silhouette blocking her path. The street lamp threw the feminine curves into stark relief almost swallowing her limbs up with the intensity of the contrasting glare. "What do you want?" Hathor shot, trying to sound brave. Her spine tingled with fear. Her flesh crawled with a miserable dread. Jolting in alarm, she thought she felt someone whisk by her neck. Her fingers curled, reaching automatically up to feel her skin. It was unharmed. Glancing around, she realized no one was near enough to have done it. "I have no money." At that the figure in front of her laughed. The cold hard sound cackled in distinct merriment, causing the others above them to join in. Their sordid song filled the night, unafraid of who might listen. Hathor swallowed. Her breath came in heavy gulps. Some of the figures above her stood. Others simply shifted their weight. When the woman in front of her didn’t answer, Hathor turned to venture down the alley the opposite way. The only sound was the hurried thud of her boots. Glancing up, her feet ground to an abrupt stop. She watched in amazement as one of the stationary figures above jumped from the towering height of the building. His long jacket fluttered behind him in the breeze. The fall should have killed him, but instead he landed with slow, exaggerated ease to stand before her. An eerie smile on his face, he nodded at her like a gentleman and blocked her path of escape. Hathor stiffened in complete terror. The man’s eyes faded but remained green. Without seeming to take a step, he was before her. His head tilted, as he studied her with watchful purpose. His narrowing eyes again glittered with a demented shade from the pale depths of his face. His lips moved to utter words she couldn’t understand. The dark strands of his hair and the handsome lines of his face rang a chord deep inside of her, but she couldn’t readily place him. The man cocked his head to the other side, pressing his face close to hers. Then, angling back he walked around her in a swift movement, sniffing her neck as he flew past her back. "Well?" Hathor jolted as the voice came from directly behind her -- sharp and angry. She spun on her heels, moving to the side to look at the new interrogator. Her boots pattered once more on the hard brick sidewalk as she backed into a wall. Shrinking away from them, she dug her body into the stone. Only her shoes made noise. Only her breath fanned over the echoing distance.


The damp stone of the building soaked coldly into her back, moistening the white linen shirt she wore. She pressed hard into the wall, feeling to her sides with her hands for an escape. There was none -- no doors, no walkways. The female, who whispered past her ear, turned to keep her cornered against the building with her body. Seeing high pink bangs and trashy tank top, Hathor whimpered in disbelief, "Ginger?" The man in front of her smiled in wonder, though his face held no mirth. His fingernails were long as he drew them thoughtfully past his face. Coldly, he asked Ginger, "How does she know you?" "From the club. I told her," Ginger stated. Ginger angled her head slightly acknowledging Hathor’s statement before again ignoring her. And then Hathor knew. The man to her side was also from the club. He had been with another man. Shaking his head, the man muttered grimly, "I can smell her human blood, but I can’t read her. It is as if she was already dead." Hathor gasped, seeing a distinct pair of fangs under the curling of his lips. They paid no heed to the sounds escaping their captive’s throat. Vague memories from the first night she saw Servaes invaded her head. Glancing at Ginger, Hathor noticed the woman too had fangs. Seeing her inspection, Ginger spread her lips and seethed defiantly at her, barring the full length of her sharp teeth. She laughed when Hathor recoiled. "You couldn’t read rat, Vincent," a third voice spat cryptically. A few above them chuckled at the jibe. Hathor turned just in time to see the man land, having jumped from the building top. He didn’t break stride, continuing to walk as he touched the ground. Hathor’s eyes searched for cables along his waist and could see nothing. He too came forward to sniff at her. His eyes glowed brightly the same as the others--green and ominous. The mysterious orbs seemed to give off their own light. Surveying her as he would a fine steak, he licked his lips. Bitterly, he spat, "Nothing." "Move over, Vincent, Lamar," still yet another voice. "Let me see her." Lamar, her last inspector, frowned. "Vincent’s right. She can’t be read. I say we dispose of her at once." "Let me have her. I’ll find out what she knows," Ginger offered with a cruel twist of her lips. "I don’t need power to get it out of her." "No," Vincent protested. "We should take her to the elders. They should be allowed to study her. Maybe she holds some secret." "Quit trying to win favors with the elders. You are too young to be chosen amongst them." This statement was from a being with light brown hair. The locks fell about his shoulders in perfect waves, trailing down his perfect back. His voice was thick with an unfamiliar accent, and he walked with authority, looking at his fellow vampires with unconcealed disdain. Instantly, Hathor detected the age on him. He was different from the others, older, more powerful, more deadly. When he talked, his speech sounded of the past blended with the smallest hint of the present. "Besides, none have seen the elders for years." Instantly, Hathor knew this man was older than the rest. He too was beautiful, but his eyes held a dangerous light, deadly in its purpose. He came forward to examine her carefully, as the others had done.


No, Hathor thought, feeling a twist in her brain, a probing fog slipping around her. Not like the others. "Yeah," Ginger muttered with a mocking snarl. "They’re just a scary story." Hathor stood stiffly as several others came to look at her. All of them pale creatures with smooth flesh and flashing eyes. She kept her mouth shut, listening to their words in horror. Her arm tried to move, wishing to sweep through the insanity and brush them away like the wind. But her arm was pushed easily aside and the flesh that touched her was all too real in its cold dismissal. Hathor would have thought herself deaf for all the noise those around her made. The alley filled with vampires, but was as silent as a resting stone. Only her heart thudded to make a dent into her hearing. That was until they spoke, and then she wished she couldn’t hear at all. Vampires jumped from the rooftops like raindrops, falling easily around her until a large crowd of them gathered. A few argued and pushed amongst themselves. Some wanted to kill her. Others agreed with Vincent and wanted to bring her to the elders, though they weren’t sure where the elders were. Some simply snorted in disgust and backed away without comment. Finally, the handsome one with wavy brown hair motioned his hand in exasperation. Instantaneously, their heads turned to him in silence. As if pondering his decision, he commanded darkly, "Begone. Go feed. There is naught special about her. She is a mortal, a simple meal." Hathor jolted in surprise. Those behind him jumped into the air, traveling backwards, their arms wide spread. They leaped onto the rooftops only to disappear over the sides. Within seconds, the alley was clear except for Lamar, Vincent, Ginger and the enigmatic leader who commanded them. "What should we do with her, Jirí?" Ginger inquired after a pause. "Whatever she is, it can’t be good for our kind." "What do you want with me?" Hathor’s lips quivered. The sound was barely audible, but the four turned to her as if they had no problem hearing her speak. Her round eyes watched them cautiously. Dread unfurled in her limbs. She realized that before her was the living proof that vampires did exist. Her mind tried to reject the thought. If vampire’s existed, she had inadvertently fallen in love with one. "Why did you come back here?" the one called Jirí asked, finally addressing the human woman before him. "What do you want with us?" "Nothing. I’m lost," she answered weakly. "She lies," spat Ginger angrily, surging forward. A single motion of Jirí’s hand stopped her. Without touching her, the old vampire held her at bay. Persistently, she growled, "Let me kill her." "Silence," ordered Jirí in a soft murmur. He bent his fingers until only two were held up to Ginger. He didn’t bother to look at her. "If she is to die it will not be by your mouth. Begone." Ginger’s lips snapped shut with a glare. A fierce growl leaving her lips, she bent her knees and jumped into the night sky, disappearing above them. Lamar stepped to the side to take her place blocking the pathway. "No one gets lost here twice," said Jirí. "There is purpose in your visit. What do you seek?"


"I told you," said Hathor mustering her courage. She glared defiantly into the leader’s eyes, which seemed to amuse him. Her voice wavered, but she persevered, "I am lost. Now let me be on my way, sir." A small chuckle was her only answer. Lamar and Vincent stood silently watching as Jirí leaned forward. His tapering fingers came up to touch Hathor’s warm face. Turning her to the side to carefully inspect her, he drew his long nails over her flesh. His eyes shifted and glowed as she had seen Servaes’ do. At the time she thought she imagined it. They seemed to be probing her, searching her for answers. "What do you want with me?" she asked with a tremble. "It depends on what you want with us, m’lady," Jirí responded, his words as smooth as silk. He lifted her chin to examine her neck. Satisfied that she hadn’t been bitten, he leisurely inquired, "Why did you come back here? Who invited you?" "No one. I’m lost," she maintained, resistant to his powers. Inside, she cried for Servaes to come. She lifted her chin defiantly in the air and stiffened her lips. Jirí let his hand drop from her face. Her breath came in deep and even pants. "I can sense that you lie, but your mind is blocked," Jirí said thoughtfully. The idea seemed to amuse him greatly. "Open your thoughts. Let me in. Then we shall see why you are here. I promise to release you if you are truly lost as you say. None of the others will harm you if I so command it of them." "Go to hell," Hathor spat. At her vehement declaration, they all laughed. Jirí paused. His nose wrinkled to sniff the air. Suddenly, he grabbed her again about her upper arms. With a supernatural force he lifted her off the ground. Floating a foot above the walkway, he pulled her back with him into the light. Her feet dangled in the air. Her hand reached to him unbidden, clasping at his elbow. She grasped the black shirt near his waist, trying to hold onto him. Her feet kicked. He held her effortlessly. His eyes trailed over her mouth, seeing the healing puncture marks Servaes left on her bottom lip. A slow grin curled on his features. "No one you say," he chuckled. Slowly, he leaned his face to hers. He brushed her mouth in a soft kiss, pulling his lips over hers. Hathor’s throat worked violently. His lips were cold as they moved along her flesh. He took her breath into his lungs, feeling her energy inside of him. His lips parted with an uneasy slowness to carefully lick in-between the parting of her mouth. His wet tongue tasted of blood as it probed her. Servaes! she thought in terror, unable to scream the word. Quickly the vampire drew back to lick his lips. He heard the scream in her head the same moment he tasted Servaes on her. With a quick shove, he threw her from him. She crashed into the wall, falling to the ground in a heap. Landing on his feet, Jirí stated coolly, "Servaes. She is marked by Servaes. She is one of his indicia. It is why she is here." "What would Servaes want with her?" Lamar inquired with a growl. "She should be dead! Keeping her alive risks all of us." "You have no proof of that," Jirí stated. Servaes! Please help me! Hathor cried silently, unable to speak. Her body ached and throbbed from


where she collided with the brick wall. Her hands dug into the stone pavement. She could taste the blood from Jirí’s lips. She let the thick nectar drip with spit from her mouth to ooze onto her hard stone bed. She could smell the damp pathway beneath her face, scraping her chin when she tried to move. Blackness surrounded her, folding her within its velvet depths. "But what of her mind?" Vincent pursued. "She knows too much about us. We can’t let her go." "If Servaes has marked her, we can’t touch her. She belongs to him." Lamar leaned over to look at the woman, lifting her head from the ground. He bent to taste her lips with a rough kiss. He too tasted like blood. Hathor coughed and gagged. Dropping her head unceremoniously, Lamar was turned before her temple struck the ground. "She is his. The mark is pure." Jirí watched and said nothing. "She knows too much. We have to touch her." Vincent leaned over to lift her in the air by the back of her neck. Standing on the ground, he held her dangling body over him with one powerful arm. "We have to kill her. We have to protect ourselves. If we do not kill her, she could tell others about us. I will not relive the old days, being hunted in my sleep only to wake and find an annoying stake through my heart or some damned piece of meat trying to pin my toes together to keep me from rising." "You whine like a human," Lamar laughed. "Are you really so scared of your lunch? Mayhap you should feed on cattle and leave the real meals to us that can handle them." "Enough," Jirí commanded, growing weary. "Neither one of you has memory of the old days. It is early yet and I wouldst catch another meal soon." "But," Lamar began. "Although," Jirí interrupted, "Vincent is right about one thing. She knows too much. Servaes should have taken care of her the first night she stumbled into the club. I doubt this one human could cause us problems, but there is no reason to risk it. I will not have London ruined for us because of one mortal girl." "Who will do it?" Vincent asked, smacking his lips. Still, his arm held her above him as if she were a feather. "You will, my hungry friend. I will not be here to witness. I cannot kill a human marked by one of my own tribe. But you could easily have found her wandering about." Jirí motioned to Lamar to join him. Both of them disappeared into the shadows as if they had never been there. Vincent smiled, alone with his food. Slowly, he lowered her to the ground. When her feet touched, he called out cheerfully, "Wake up, love." Hathor slowly opened her eyes to look at him. Her lips moved, but no sound came forth. Her head pounded. Blood trickled over the side of her face. She heard them talking about her as if listening from a dark dream. Unable to find words, her eyes drifted closed again. Vincent frowned, shaking her harder so that her head whipped violently on her neck. His voice was enigmatic, as he expressed bitterly, "I said wake up. I have a few questions for you, human." Hathor laughed. Her voice rang in near hysteria. Her lungs felt as if they filled with fire. Her lips barely


moved, as she spat, "Go to hell, vampire. I will tell you nothing." "Oh, you’ll speak," Vincent assured her. His eyes turned red as his mouth leaned down to claim her. Baring his teeth, he let loose a breathy growl. "And I will know everything."

**** Servaes lifted his head from the neck of his victim. The woman moaned lightly and tried to move. He held her steady, turning his ears over the night. His eyes darted around him. Then, feeling the woman’s feeble hands reaching for the grip in her hair, he quickly turned and finished drinking from her neck until she fell lifeless. Dropping her, he left her on the ground. Quickly he dashed through the night, his ears straining against the wind for the sound that disturbed his meal. His heart beat wildly, thinking of Hathor. It had been several nights since she banished him from her side. Every eve he awoke, longing to go back to her, but he respected her wishes and left her be. When he slept he would dream, a rare thing for one as old as he was. And the dreams were always about her, dancing in his arms, laughing up into his eyes without fear. He thought about taking her blood, killing her so that she could no longer haunt him. More often than that, he thought about taking her and giving her the gift of a dark rebirth. Though, in truth, after a century of loneliness he could no longer convince himself that it was a gift he possessed, but a curse. But if she were with you, he would think, arguing against his years of judgment, then you wouldn’t be lonely. She would be with you. And you could take her from this damned city full of hate and human garbage. You could find a way to live without killing. There were rumors of those who fed in the basements of blood banks, drinking the stale blood each night from a plastic bag. There were others still said to have whole estates filled with humans that served them, feeding off of them a bit each day, rotating them in turns so that none died. There it was said the humans didn’t fear the vampire because they knew they would be protected. And the vampire that lorded over them would take care of them, giving them the healing power of his blood if they became ill. Servaes! Servaes froze, stopping in his progress. The sound was clear within his brain, calling to him for help. Hathor was in trouble. She needed him. She cried out for him. His heart pounded and twitched. His body moved with greater force now that his hunger was satisfied. Trailing over the streets, jumping over the rooftops, flying within the shadows, he moved through the night air. The closer he came to the Vampire Club, the louder her shouts became. Then, suddenly, they stopped. Bounding over a rooftop, he lifted his face into the air. He caught the aromatic scent of her blood on the night. With a growl, he dashed over a brick wall to a narrow passageway. Landing with a heavy thud on the ground, he darted forward with supernatural speed. Hathor hung limply in the air. Vincent pawed and chewed at her neck as he drank sloppily from her throat. The young vampire’s teeth gnawed and slashed at her neck, tearing her open like a wild dog. Servaes saw the pale line of her face, her features contorted in pain. Slowly her eyes opened, her mouth moved to say his name. No sound came forth. Unexpectedly, she smiled a sweetly woeful smile. Her eyes found him instantly, growing warm before rolling back into darkness.


Servaes’ face contorted and bent in anger. His nose wrinkled, his eye veined red with blood. He slammed into Vincent, pulling the man’s head sharply away from Hathor’s neck. Hathor fell into a heap, her neck gouged and bleeding. Servaes opened his mouth, baring his fangs at Vincent who looked up from the ground, stunned. "Get out of here! She is my indicium! Can you not smell my mark, you fool?" Servaes shouted. His voice resounded like the thunder of a thousand galloping horses. Vincent crossed back easily on the palms of his hands, his back still facing the ground. A smarmy grin crossed over his lips as Servaes came over him to grab him up. Vincent laughed as Servaes vaulted him high into the air, only to turn and slam him into the ground. The paved road broke and cracked with a hard clunk. Vincent laughed harder, not bothering to defend himself. Servaes let him go with a growl, knowing he needed to get to Hathor before she drew her last breath. Once she was dead, there was nothing he could do for her. "If I knew you were coming, brother, I would have saved you some of her sweetness." Vincent stood. His lips dripped with Hathor’s blood, his chin stained to crimson at the messy drinking. "You know you are not supposed to kill outside the club. I could ban you for your carelessness," Servaes spat. "For how many years? One hundred? Two? What is it to me? I can wait forever. But your human, she’ll still be dead. Can’t you hear her heartbeat growing weaker?" Indeed, Servaes could hear Hathor’s heartbeat becoming faint. When he turned to Vincent, the vampire bowed mockingly and disappeared into the night, blowing away on the wind. Servaes went to Hathor. He could feel the life draining from her limbs as he took her pallid face in his palms. Her cooled skin matched the temperature of his flesh. She was weak, too weak to move. Suddenly, her heart stopped. Lifting her pliant head onto his lap, he slit open his wrist with a gnash of his teeth. He didn’t stop to think. His blood dripped and spilled on the ground, staining the already dirty linen of her white shirt. Without reservation, he pressed his wrist tightly to her mouth. The warm blood met with her cold, blue lips. Squeezing his fist, he forced his life down her throat. For a long eternity of seconds, her heart didn’t beat. Her lungs didn’t lift beneath his hand. Then, like the whispering caress of a butterfly’s wings, he felt her lips began to move, delicately drinking what he offered. And he encouraged her, hushing to her in old French, words she couldn’t understand. Her heart again started to pound -- frantic and wild and strong. A moan rumbled unwaveringly in her throat. The wound at her neck closed and disappeared. After a moment, her eyes opened with a gasp. The blue orbs filled red as she leaned forward to grab his wrist. Clutching desperately at him, she drank of his power with the oblivious selfishness of an infant. Servaes’ mouth opened with a painful gasp as she drained him of his blood, replacing her own. Feeling his own hunger returning to torment him, he grabbed Hathor by the hair and pried her away. For a stunned moment she stared at him. The red blended and faded in her eyes, the whites soaking it up into their widened depths. The confused storm of her blue orbs shifted around. Her mouth opened with a desperate shrill for air. Then, giving a painful surge for him, she fell into his lap -- motionless. Servaes unceremoniously pushed her aside and stumbled to his feet. His body swayed in frail weaving


patterns, like a drunkard leaving a pub. Sensing an old familiar presence over him, he looked up. Above him on the rooftop was Jirí. A smile graced the vampire’s lips as he nodded down at Servaes in greeting. Servaes watched him, powerless. His arms were trapped limply at his sides, his body vulnerable. He weakly wondered what the old one was about. Jirí reached behind him, lifting up a mesmerized human from the top of the roof. The vampire smiled, a sad smile lacking any type of calculation. Then, with a toss, he gave the elderly man to Servaes. Servaes caught the gift, sensing instantly the human’s sickly penchant for young pre-teenage girls. I knew you wouldst want one that was tainted. Eat my friend and then begone from here. Do not let the others find her. Let Vincent tell them she is dead for they will sense the truth soon enough. Servaes heard the words distinctly in his head. He was too weak to utter his thanks. Jirí disappeared into the night. Servaes’ eyes rolled in his head. Desperately, he fell to his knees and latched onto the man’s awaiting throat. Then, having drunk every drop but the last from the man, he left him in the alley. His strength somewhat restored, the wearied vampire gathered Hathor in his arms. He sent a message with his mind to a human familiar within the club to remove the body from the streets. Before the human could respond, Servaes whisked Hathor away, disappearing into the dark city night.

Chapter Seven

A strange and monotonous beat echoed all around the chilled cavern. It was the only sound beyond the frantic drumming of Hathor’s heart. Or was it in fact only her chest, thudding low in constant rhythm? As she tried to open her eyes, she couldn’t discern the difference. She threw open her mouth, merely to draw in a ragged gasp for air. Her lungs felt as if they had shut off, not needing to draw breath. Unfamiliar sensations drifted throughout her limbs, a power and strength she could never possess on her own. She didn’t move, not trusting her senses for the moment as they all spun out of control. Her skin prickled wickedly, feeling very alive to the world around her. Even the hard stone seemed a seductive press into her backside. Then, in amazement, she realized that her eyes were open, opened wide as they ventured around her. The thudding faded back into tapping until she made out the impression of water dripping steadily on stone. The dank smell of stale, musty air filled her nostrils, burning them with the lack of ventilation. Still, her body didn’t move from where it lay, her neck didn’t turn. Staring up, she noticed her breathing echoed back to her ominously. Her body lay widespread, as if she had been dropped without care onto a jagged, dusty floor. Her arms fell to her sides, away from her body. Her legs lay limp.


Gradually, her fingers twitched in fear. Without making a sound, she turned her palm to the ground and drew it over to her side. She was on stone -- unevenly notched and unforgiving. Her hand traced the patterns of cracks to where they disappeared beneath her shoulders and back. Her fingers flexed only to recoil in pain. Then, hearing a distant squeak of a rat, she flew forward in the darkness lifting without effort until she was sitting. Her legs drew into her chest, her body oddly sore but not in any great deal of pain. Remembering her attackers, she felt her neck for the vicious bite she could clearly recall. The skin was smooth and unharmed. Could she have imagined such a thing? Could she have imagined the painful, un-enchanted tearing of Vincent’s slashing teeth? No, she thought. It was too terrifying not to be real. Her heart beat louder and became more frenzied until she realized that it wasn’t only her organ that pounded. There was someone with her -- within her yet separate. She wasn’t alone in the darkness. "Who are you?" she whispered in nervousness, though her words came out bravely. The sound echoed back at her in hollow resonations. With the rumbling of her voice, the beatings lowered and finally faded. She shivered as she heard the footfall of rodents running about with a temperate squeak. She hugged her knees tighter. "There is no point in denying your presence. I can feel you in here. Where have you taken me? What do you want?" The hairs on her neck stood up like the feel of a cold, caressing hand. This time she knew she wasn’t crazy. She could feel him all around her. She could smell his earthy scent. The air stirred slightly by her face. Her lids fell slowly over her eyes. She leaned forward. Nothing was there. Hathor waited. She detected the air to stir by her arm. Concentrating on everything around her, she froze. Then, with the quickness of a striking snake, she grabbed at the darkness. Her eyes shot open in surprise when she felt cloth. The cloth didn’t move, not even to stir in breath, but stood firm over a masculine chest. She had found the beating heart. Gazing steadily at her hand in the unyielding darkness, somehow unafraid, she voiced, "Turn on the lights, Servaes." The chest beneath her palm chuckled. She could feel the beat of his heart steadily under his warm shirt, giving her comfort. She could smell the familiar scent of him like a wave of remembrance. Her body knew him well, though her mind didn’t. She couldn’t explain it. But the realization sent chills over her. Yet, stranger still was that she could feel his every subtle movement within her as if she was moving along with him. "The rats are far away from here, chéri. Do not be frightened of them." Servaes’ voice rang out over her like a gentle caress. Hearing his words, she tumbled forward into his arms. She dug herself into the folds of his chest. Her arms wrapped around the protective strength of his neck. She clung to him like a child, scared and lost. Servaes jolted in surprise, but quickly enfolded her in the safety of his embrace. His low accented words wrapped her in a cocoon, as he whispered, "It is all right, chéri. You are safe. The others do not know you are here. I will not let them harm you." "Where am I? I can hear the rats. They feel like they are all around me about to crawl over my skin."


Hathor’s voice trembled. It brushed over his neck in a whisper. She stirred against him, refusing to let go. He was her anchor in this troublesome world. She could feel the press of his fine body holding her with ease. She hugged him closer, needing to feel the realness of his form. The strong folds of his chest pressed into her softer skin. His arms held her near. Turning her face up, her lips brushed accidentally by the side of his jaw. Servaes stiffened. She didn’t turn away. Her skin was alive with the feel of him, sensitive and trembling. Hathor’s blood lit with the hot fire of longing, as her knees fell open, urging her to draw him to the floor with her. Her fingers itched to tear at his clothes and her flesh begged to be free of all constraints. Her lips parted with a moan, but she suppressed the sound with a pained gasp. She wanted to cry, but no tears fell from her eyes. "What has happened to me? I feel different yet somehow extraordinary." "Shhh," Servaes soothed, stroking her hair from her face. Her nipples hardened and poked through the linen of her shirt. He felt their seductive outline against him. He smelled her passion building between her thighs. Her fingertips trailed tenderly over his lips, urging him to press them into her womanhood to test the fire of her response. Murmuring along her hair, he said, "Everything will be fine. You are safe." And then slowly, as his hand drifted over her eyes, she remembered. Whimpering against his palm, her lips brushed his flesh, as she said, "You saved me. I thought of you, and you came to me." Her body shivered in fear. Gasping, she pulled away to search for his eyes. Her fingers rose to touch the handsome curves of his face, finding first the line of his masculine nose. Desperately, she rushed, "They wanted me dead. They said they couldn’t read me. That I knew too much, and then I realized that you didn’t lie to me. And that you are what you say you are. I’m sorry for not believing you --" "Shhh," he whispered again. Servaes’ hands roamed over her hair to touch her neck. He felt his blood inside of her where his body wanted to be. She didn’t stop his hand as it moved down to lie on the top curve of her breast over her heart. Her chest arched slightly towards him, urging him to continue his exploration. With a moan, her breast thrust itself up into his fingers. The peak sought the heat of his palm. She rubbed herself against him. Servaes held back, knowing her to be in a delicate state. It was the sensations his blood caused in her skin that made her so passionate. He didn’t want her doing anything that later she would regret. But, as his blood stirred excitement within her, his body responded. Her chest rubbed him more insistently. Her hips began to search the darkness for him. He watched her face, her eyes closing with a moan of desire. Her body was drugged with him. Her head rolled back, exposing the long line of her neck to his kiss. His lips parted, painfully needing to taste her skin, wanting to feel her pulse beating beneath his probing tongue. Huskily, he inquired, "What were you doing in the alley? You shouldn’t have gone there. I tried to block the way from you." "I was looking for you," she admitted weakly. Hathor felt the danger in him. She felt the constrained beast. She didn’t care. Her hands trailed over his chest digging into the neckline to touch his skin. With a pant, she grew very serious and turned to earnestly look for him. Her hands stopped their exploring, coming out to rest over his shirt. Licking her lips, she felt his hand still on her breast, cupping her. Slowly, she said, "I wanted to say I was sorry. It seems stupid now, but I was going to tell you if you wanted to pretend to be a vampire and only visit me at night, then I would let you. I missed you. I know that sounds foolish, but I did. However, now that I know what you are, I don’t know what to think. There is so much


I don’t understand. So many questions I want to ask, but can’t remember." Servaes felt a wondrous sensation jolt through him at the confession. She had been coming to him -willingly. He let his hand fall from her chest, knowing that sunrise would surely interrupt anything that he might want to start. For her, he would require a whole night and more to fulfill his need. "What did they mean when they said they couldn’t read me? They acted as if it was a great thing," she whispered, scared anew. "They meant that they could not read your thoughts," he whispered. He knew she sought answers, but this was no time to discuss it. She was too fragile. "Or control them." "Why am I not dead? I felt myself dying." Then, when something terrifying occurred to her, she drew away from him, crawling back. Shakily, she accused, "You gave me your blood. You made me one of you, didn’t you? I mean, that is how it works. You drain us and replace our blood with yours and…. That is why I am here in the darkness. I’m trapped here with you, in this world of blood and killing. You made me one of you, didn’t you?" Trapped. The word echoed in his heart. She didn’t want to be with him at the cost it would demand of her. The loathing was clear in her voice. She damned what he was and didn’t want it. And he couldn’t blame her. His voice became hard, as he harshly commanded, "Stop listening to the rats. Block them from your mind and concentrate on using your eyes. That is why you see only darkness. The power I gave you enhances your senses, but at the cost of another." Hathor did as he commanded. Almost instantly, the sound faded as a light began to clear in her vision. Servaes’ face appeared before her, outlined by soft candlelight. He sat back on his haunches, his hands touching only at the fingers, his elbows resting on top of his knees. His head cocked to the side as he gave her a rueful smile, as if to say, See. I told you. Hathor looked around. They appeared to be in a cave, only it was of human construction. The floor was littered with age and dust. The walls were old and chipped, but carried the tiled mosaic of woman. Her eyes stared blindly, and a piece of the cheek was missing. "Am I a vampire?" she asked finally, turning back to him. "No," he answered, unemotional. Inside he trembled. His body didn’t cool in his desire for her. It stung and bit him with its lust. "You are not." "But, what am I? I can feel your blood inside me cursing though my veins, pumping in my heart. I can feel every subtle movement of your body as if you were pressed against me. I know that you gave me part of yourself. And I can hear and feel and see clearer than before." Servaes watched her pale face. He could see his blood drifting through her eyes in swirls of red, clouding the stormy blue. He knew what she said was true. He felt her just as surely inside of him. "If I didn’t give you my blood, you would have died. I saved you." Standing, he turned from her. "We must go. Dawn approaches. We cannot be caught out in the light." "But," Hathor gasped, moving to follow him. Her legs felt strong as they walked under a narrow


archway. The archway led to an underground street of sorts. Behind them, the candle flickered out. Her eyes adjusted in the darkness, her hearing unable to detect noise in the distance. "I thought you said I wasn’t like you. I should be fine come dawn." "Is what I am so terrible?" he asked quietly. His words were low and washed over her with a chill. She couldn’t answer. He didn’t need her to. They walked over the old abandoned railroad system, running parallel to miles of sewers, hundreds of feet beneath the surface of London streets, unable to hear the busy world awaking above them. They passed by an old station platform. The door to an abandoned elevator hid in the corner. A curling poster, unreadable for the dust, didn’t sway as it barely clung to a wall. The station had been shut up and forsaken long ago, its narrow archways telling of another life. When she didn’t answer, he stopped and turned to her. Her pale countenance shone in confusion. Her bright eyes watched him carefully for answers. He could feel her trying to read his mind. He frowned, understanding she had taken more of him than he first realized. Blocking her probing easily, he said, "In saving your life, I gave you part of myself. You are human, do not worry. But, just as you now possess some of my powers, you also possess my weaknesses." "The dawn," she echoed his earlier words. "Sunlight." "Oui, sunlight. If you were to go outside in the daylight you would burst into flames," he admitted curtly. Servaes turned from her and continued to walk, his steps once more quickened. She watched his movements, graceful and powerful. Continuing, he said, "To make you like me, I would have had to be the one to drain you of your blood. Then I would give it back to you mixed with mine. That is the way to make a vampire, mademoiselle." "So I can never see the sun again?" she whispered, wanting to cry. "Oui, you will," he answered. "Slowly you will fade back to as you were. You will be a good deal healthier, but very human." "How long will this last?" "It is hard to tell," Servaes admitted. "I’ve never bothered to save a human before." "Oh." Hathor followed his steps. She wondered what it was that made her so special to attract the attention of the London underworld. She could only assume they were mistaken in her. Seeing Servaes speed up, she moved to keep up with him. Reaching his side, she blurted, "Did you kill that man who kidnapped his granddaughter?" "Yes," he answered, unabashed. "I told you as much." "And you took the child back to her mother?" she persisted. Servaes sighed heavily, uncomfortable with revealing so much about what he had done. "Oui. If you must know the details of it, he was going to have relations with the child that very night. I stopped him." "Oh," Hathor shivered in disgust. Seeing the tight pull of his jaw, she decided it best not to press him further. She bit her lips thoughtfully. "Are you taking me home?"


"No." "Why not?" Hathor asked in surprise. "I’ll stay inside all day and tomorrow night you can answer all my questions. I promise not to go by any windows." "You will stay with me. The dawn is too close, your house too far. I do not have the strength to take you there." His words were abrupt and stunted. Suddenly, he turned, lifting her into his arms. Hathor gasped at the suddenness of his embrace. And then the world flashed over them like a blur. She buried her head into his chest. The spinning world made her nauseous. Just as quickly as it began, the blurring stopped and Servaes set her down. Again he began to walk. With a gasp, she realized they had moved. Looking behind her, she couldn’t see the station platform they had just passed. "Where are we anyway?" Hathor again hurried to keep up with him. She jogged next to his gliding stride. "Under the city streets in passages and tunnels long forgotten and buried. It is where we live. Just now I took you through the sewers by the rats you hate so much." Servaes gave her a small smile. His eyes remained passionless. "I didn’t see a sewer," she began, only to grab his arm and huddle close. In a frightened whisper, she whispered, "You mean the others are down here?" "Are you frightened?" he asked, his eyes trailing to her parted lips. When she didn’t answer, he stated, "They cannot sense you with my blood in your veins. You will be safe for a time, so long as you do not stray from where I tell you." "So I’m your prisoner?" "If you like," he smirked, amused. "Will I have to drink blood?" she wondered aloud with a wrinkle to her nose. "I refuse to kill anyone." "Only mine," he answered, sounding bored. "Why yours?" "Because it is my life in you. If I take it from you, then you will die a painfully agonizing death. If I wean you from me, then you will go back to how you were. You need me to live." His words were cold, but a flash of softness passed through his gaze when he glanced at her. Hathor shivered in response. She felt close to him. She wanted to kiss him, but refused to try. She had to concentrate. "Why did you save me?" she questioned in a hush. Her eyes turned down. Servaes sighed in exasperation at her endless questioning. He didn’t respond. He didn’t know how. How could he make her understand the centuries he lived? How could he tell her how rare she was, that no one could read her thoughts. He stopped moving, glancing up the sidewall. He turned to her with a teasing grin. "This is it. My home," he said at last, not taking his eyes from her. His hand rested gently on her cheek. His words held a silent challenge, as he whispered intimately, "You’re going to have to sleep with me." His words sent a chill through her. She closed her eye, letting her face press completely into his palm.


"Come, chéri." He pulled her again into his arms, lifting her above the ground as they shot up into the air. Finding an entrance hidden high in the ceiling, he placed her inside. Instantly, a soft glow formed at the end of a long tunnel. Commanding behind her, he said, "Crawl forward. There you will find my bed." She did as he told her, moving through the narrow tunnel on her hands and knees. She couldn’t hear him behind her, but she felt that he was there. Suddenly, the tunnel widened and she was able to stand. Looking around, she saw that it was a circular chamber covered with dust and stone. In the middle, there was a large black coffin trimmed with brushed silver swing bars. It was wider than most she remembered seeing. Spinning on her heels, she gaped at Servaes. "I can’t sleep in that," she declared. "It’s a…." "Coffin," he supplied with a wry smile. The tips of his fangs glistened playfully. His deep-set eyes delved into her with their piercing elegance. His body moved with the grace of shadows, haunting her skin with the reminder of his cold touch. But his fingers weren’t always cold. Sometimes they were warm and gentle. "Yes, that coffin." She waved her hand behind her with a gulp. "You have no choice," he answered, seeming to fly behind her. "Again you must listen to me or die. There is no time for other arrangements to be made. Unless you would rather spend the day in another’s coffin? I am sure I can find Ginger. She is more than eager to take you to her bed." "That is not funny!" Hathor hissed. "Then, I will do?" he inquired, a bit of mocking in his hard voice. Licking her lips, she nodded. With a lazy tilt to his narrowing eyes, his body brushed along hers. He leaned over and lifted the coffin’s lid. It came up in one complete piece to stand tall over to the side. Within was white silk lining, cushioned and soft. He nodded his head for her to crawl in. His eyes lit with challenge, wondering if she would refuse. The coffin was large enough to hold both of them, but sleeping together would be tight. There was no way she could escape. Swallowing, she eyed him resignedly before doing as he ordered. She was frightened and aroused by the silken feel beneath her palms. Hathor sat. She leaned over and took off her boots and socks, throwing them on the ground next to her. He smiled in amusement, his eyes lighting in mirth. "Do you mind?" Hathor asked hesitantly. "I can’t sleep with anything on my feet." Servaes shook his head. "Just hurry. The dawn is coming." She unbuttoned her jeans and un-tucked her linen shirt. Then, lying down on the flat surface, she looked up at him. Her heart beat as he came over her, crawling with a deliberate slowness. His hand supported his weight by her head. His knees edged in-between her thighs, brushing erotically intimate against her. Her body jerked with liquid fire, burning hot in her veins. He paused, gazing down at her to see her reaction. With one slow bend of the elbow he could be upon her, trapping her supple body beneath his. He could claim the softness of her for his own. Hathor’s eyes turned shyly under her lashes. A pink blush lined her cheeks at his hot perusal. His body lowered and fit next to hers, his hips nestling along her helpless thigh, careful to keep the length of his


arousal from her flesh. It wouldn’t do to tempt himself further. Then turning, he pulled her to him so that her face was pressed near his chest. Her legs twined within his strong ones, held close in the embrace of a lover. "What if I can’t breathe?" she questioned. His powerful hand lifted to close the lid. She snuggled next to his body as the darkness closed in on them. A silence, threatened only by the beatings of their hearts, engulfed them. Her head nestled on the soft satin pillow snuggling delicately beneath his chin. Her breath fanned his neck. Servaes grimaced. Her body was torture. Its soft curves and supple texture enticed him with a savage lust. His fingers stiffened and stretched in the effort it took not to caress her. When finally he had his longing under control, he let his hand wrap protectively around her waist. He felt her move, her mind drifting to sleep. "Do not worry, ma petite," he murmured against her temple before placing a kiss on her silken locks. He could smell traces of shampoo scented with wild flowers and fallen leaves in the teasing tresses. His mouth ached to taste her, all of her. Servaes knew that she was not immune to him. He saw the hesitant desire in her eyes as she looked at him. He could feel the intense heat coming from between her legs as her womanhood pressed near. The sweet nectar of her smell engulfed his senses as the compelling perfume filled the coffin with its wickedly delightful temptations. As he said the words, he wondered again why he bothered. "So long as you are with me, you will be protected." "Yes," she mumbled, more exhausted than she had ever been in her life. Her head grew light as an unfamiliar swirl of yearning flooded through her heavy limbs. Her body was held frozen. Her hips were intensely aware of where he was. Becoming captured by a sleep more powerful than her lust, only because it carried a hint of death inside it, she breathed, "You are my protector, Marquis le Vampire. I trust you. With you I am unafraid." Servaes felt her slip into oblivion. Her body cradled next to him. Her words slapped him across the face like a burst of sunlight. She was foolish to believe herself safe with him. He was more dangerous to her than the others, for he wanted more of her. Her feet moved restlessly to dig by the flesh of his ankle. His coffin was spacious but, with two of them inside, their bodies were compelled together. He couldn’t help the smile that lined his lips as he pulled her closer into him. Her chest rose softly in breath, brushing along his cheek as she exhaled. Servaes closed his eyes. He knew that he would soon join her in the dark, dreamless world of unconscious sleep. However, before he let himself slip, he pressed another kiss to her forehead, content to not be alone.


Chapter Eight

Hathor awoke the next dusk with a moan of contentment. By the relaxation in her body, she imagined she slept for an eternity. And, by the energy humming in her veins, she felt as if the darkness of dreams turned her back into a small, restless child waking up to an adventure. Hathor stretched her hands over her head. Her back arched off the softness of her bed. But then, her fingers hit with a hard thunk as they met the solid sides of the coffin. With a jolt, she remembered where she was and opened her eyes. The coffin lid above her was opened. The flickering of candlelight outlined the shadowed ceiling of the cave-like room. Servaes was not by her side, and she couldn’t hear him about. Though the silence meant nothing, he hardly made a noise when he moved. Turning over slowly so that she faced the satiny side, she leaned up to peek over the edge. Her heart beat in anticipation, wanting to see him again. It was not to be. She was alone in the small chamber. Giving a light yawn, she pulled herself up. She noticed her arms felt stronger than usual. Curiously, she adjusted her hips. Hoping with ease over the side, she landed neatly on the stone floor, seeming to fly in the air rather than jump. But, in doing so, she stubbed her toe on a jagged edge and let loose a sharp, "Aw!" Hopping on one foot, she brought her toe up into the candlelight. A tiny smudge of blood ran across the tip. Wiping gingerly at it, she saw that underneath there was no wound from which it could have bled. She set her foot gradually back on the floor. Pursing her lips together, she hummed thoughtfully. Then lifting both arms above her head, she jumped, seeing if she could fly. She landed with a thud, not making it more than a few inches off the ground. Hathor laughed at her foolishness. Knowing that Servaes was gone, she called to him anyway, "Servaes, are you there?" Like she anticipated, there was no answer. Wandering around the oblong room, she noticed a trunk in the corner. It looked very old. With a guilty glance over her shoulder, she lifted the lid. Inside she saw some clothing, a pair of pants and a shirt she remembered him wearing on stage. Thinking of that night, she raised her hand to her mouth to feel her teeth. They were flat. Lifting the shirt, she found a used quill and old bottle of ink beneath an antique pocket watch, and stiff parchment resembling the letter he sent her bidding her to meet him in the garden. A smile alighted on her features as she remembered dancing in his arms. It had felt as if he carried her above the earth. She wondered why he kept her alive when everyone else wanted her dead. She knew the others thought she possessed some secrets. She didn’t. Until the night before, she didn’t even believe in anything supernatural -- let alone vampires. Under the parchment was an old book, its words in French, its cover dusty and worn. She ran her fingers across it, setting it out of the way without opening it to see inside. Next, detecting the glint of a locket in the corner, she lifted it. It was very old. Flipping the delicate catch, she opened it up. Inside was the painted miniature of a boy with dark brown skin. His hair was shortly cropped and his eyes glinted with a familiar mischief. He had the same slant to his eyes as Servaes and the same bow to his lips. With


a gasp, she realized it must have been Servaes as a child. Gently locking the jewelry closed, she placed all the items back inside his trunk the way she found them. It wasn’t much for one man to possess, especially one who lived so many years. He should have been living in a palace, not a cave. With a sad sigh, Hathor closed the lid. She realized that the small trunk, the candle, and the coffin were it. Trailing barefoot over the dirty stone, she ran her hands over the barren walls covered with the ancient lace of spider webs. The webbing stuck to her fingers, pulling down from the wall at her gentle persuasion. "He must be so lonely," she whispered with heartfelt sorrow to the black and silver coffin. "For this is no home. This is no way to spend an eternity." Walking to her boots, she pulled her socks and shoes over her chilled feet. Standing, she needlessly smoothed the padding of the coffin and closed the lid. Not knowing what to do or where to go, she buttoned her jeans, leaving her shirt to hang over them. The white linen was stained beyond repair. Hathor went to the entrance of the cave-like home, crawling on her hands and knees into the tunnel. The other side was dark, not giving a hint as to where it ended. If she remembered correctly, there would be no way down. She would be trapped until Servaes came back for her. What if he doesn’t come back? she pondered, growing fearful. What if he changes his mind and leaves me for dead? Hathor scolded herself for being foolish. Her hands reached the edge, slipping slightly before she was able to steady herself. Pebbles fell forward to the ground, crashing softly below her in a rumbling shower. Feeling around the side, it was as she thought. There was no escape. Sighing, she lay in the tunnel, staring out into the darkness with the strength of her eyes. She could see nothing in the distance but the faint outlines of abandoned tracks. It wouldn’t be wise to try an escape. Servaes had said that others were in the tunnels. Slowly, moving backwards the same way she came, she crawled until she was once more inside. Then, resting her back against the wall, she did the only thing she could. She waited.

**** Servaes stalked the London streets, wiping his lips on his hand to pull away any blood that might remain on them. He despised the need for blood that ran rampant through his veins each time he awoke. The bloodlust drove him mad if ignored and tore at him when he must indulge. But, just as he hated his desire for it, he couldn’t deny the sweet power of life that flowed through his limbs each time he drank. It was the thick, sweet essence of immortality and he could no longer deny himself it, than a human could refuse the need for air. If denied, the baser need would overtake him until he was a thriving monster with no control over his actions as he sought the nearest source of life. If bad enough, the starved vampire could turn demonic and eat through a small town in the course of an entire night. Servaes hated to leave Hathor in his tomb, but he had no choice. He knew the others expected him to give them a performance at the club. His stronger powers of seduction helped to boil the blood of the


victims. His only stipulation was that when brought before him, the human he took must have a dark secret -- a sick mind deserving of a harsh death. If he must take life, then he might as well take that which didn’t need living -- murderers, child fornicators, serial rapists. There were always plenty of dark seeds to choose from in the cities. That is why he lived within the crowded settlements. Although at times, he missed the quiet solitude of the country life. Servaes made his way to the club, blocking his thoughts of Hathor from his mind. Instantly, he spied Ginger in the room, her arm around a buxom redhead. Ginger’s eyes shot up in amusement, her mouth curling into a catlike grin as a trail of blood made its crimson way down her chin. A pair of fang-marks bore into the large bend of her lover’s breast. Servaes showed nothing but inwardly recoiled in disgust from her. His jaw tightened. He hadn’t realized how detestable the Vampire Club really was until he met Hathor. She was pure, so full of light and goodness. He could feel it in her. Although he couldn’t read her past deeds or her thoughts, he knew that what he felt in her was real. It was as real as anything was inside of him. As he drifted through the shadows undetected by mesmerized humans, he made his way back to the stage. Already vampire girls were dancing around, drawing attention to their slender, muscular forms. He could smell the passion and lust in the air, permeating like a drug off the human bodies. It was a ruse, this club. It was a game they played to keep themselves from getting bored, put together by some of the younger vampires and attended by very few of the old in times of monotony. Servaes was the only creature well over two centuries that stayed. This gave him a position of power amongst the group, and he wielded his power with sublime distaste and indifference, not caring what happened to his vampire subjects. At the club, Servaes had the illusory respect of the younger vampires. He wouldn’t be bothered by them outside the club, and they gave him whatever he desired, often picking his victims for him and bringing them to the stage. They found his penchant for lowlifes an amusing quirk and often prided themselves on obtaining the sickest soul they could find -- like the woman who drowned her children. He had approached the vampires of London, having traveled from Africa then Spain. And long before that he had been in Paris, his homeland. Before that still, he covered the world in search for answers he never found. Sometimes the others could sense him, sometimes not and he was sure there were times he was watched without being approached. Servaes had given up fighting his instincts, living a somewhat bitter and shallow half existence stimulated by nothing. He stayed at the club because at least there the others surrounded him. However unemotionally, they shared his prison of night. Though most of the young vampires were too ignorant and new to know what they lost or at what cost they had given it up. It was only with luck that they thought so highly of themselves to greedily not share the gift with other mortals, lest the world be overrun with the undead. But it all stopped the night Hathor stumbled in his life. He wanted her then, called her to him to be with him on stage with a bloodlust so powerful he forgot himself. She refused him. He wanted her blood then, only later wanting to possess her body just as deeply. Servaes moved onto the stage, not bothering to come up through the floor. He walked behind the dancers, running his hands idly over their flesh as was expected. Out of spite, he cut his nails into them, watching their flesh heal itself. Their chilled bodies were nothing to him, as dead as cold marble --


beautiful to look at, desolate to hold. Seeing a woman brought before him, he closed his eyes to her face. Her flesh quivered, stripped naked by the dancers. Servaes reached to her. Lifting her from the ground without touching her warm flesh, he waited as a murmur of awe rose over the crowd. The woman was held suspended before them, her hazel eyes rounded in shock. He allowed a part of his mind to wrap around her, numbing her brain to fear, mesmerizing her with his charm. Then with a keen sharpness his head turned to the back of the room. Standing, mocking him from the shadows was Vincent. The young vampire nodded in acknowledgment as his eyes rounded in gaiety and his lips parted in a mock bite. "What is her crime?" one from the crowd called, urged by his vampire lover. "She is one of you," Servaes stated darkly, honestly, looking at the condemned man stroking himself hard in desire. Inside, Servaes recoiled in disgust. He hated it all. He hated the demonic eyes watching him in amusement of what he did. He hated the human trash he was forced to feed on each night. He hated himself. He was weary, ever so weary of it all. At his bold statement, the vampires laughed, compassionless as they unleashed their fangs. The man who held himself passionate froze as the sexy vixen he was with lowered her head to him. He grabbed her hair roughly, pushing her down on his member. But his moan soon turned to agony as the blazing heat of fangs drove into his skin, sucking hungrily at the artery in his thigh to drain him of his impassioned blood. Soon the frightened cries of those lured to the vampire den joined the man in a crescendo of dying flesh. The vampires on stage jumped at the suspended woman held still by Servaes’ power. Servaes instantly let her go. She fell to the floor, taking the temptresses with her. "I am done," Servaes announced walking from the stage to never come back. A few glanced at him curiously, their eyes moving up as they continued to drink from their meal. They all wondered at his foul mood, though they had all known that this day would eventually come -- as all things must in an eternity of night. The old vampire didn’t answer their inquiries. Quietly, he walked over littering corpses as they fell onto the floor. He refused to heed the disgust in his chest, unwilling to let the others feel it in him. Marquis, Servaes paused to look dispassionately at Vincent’s summons. The man smiled, flashing his bloodied teeth. His lips didn’t move, as he said, Jirí would like a word with you. Servaes nodded and shot back nonchalantly, I thought I sensed him about. Vincent’s eyes narrowed in surprise. The Marquis didn’t seem too upset that the unreadable girl was dead. Thoughtfully, he shrugged, turning to watch the corpses being pulled from the floor. Bloody undead bastard! Servaes heard the vampire’s silent swearing, as he walked leisurely from the club. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his breeches, strolling down the city street. He watched as moving shadows spilled forth to make their way over London. Gaining speed as he moved further away from the club, he wound his way to the Tower Bridge to cross over it undetected. Then, seeing the Tower of London, he smiled ruefully, knowing where to find his friend. He jumped and flew over the old castle structure, over the gatehouse and many towers, until with a brief laugh he stopped below a short square building. Leaping up from the ground to the roof with ease,


he landed neatly on his feet. Jirí’s back was to him, his hands folded cleverly behind, as he gazed over the surrounding landscape. The flashing lights of the city enveloped them -- blinking and cold. They reflected off the water in various flecks of colors, waving gently over the rippled surface. The artificial glow was so different than that which they remembered. "I miss the fire of torches and the sounds of a strong destrier’s hooves pounding into the earthen paths of my homeland. Do you know that they have festivals celebrating how we lived when I was human? They call it Renaissance, a rebirth. I wonder if we should go show them what rebirth really means. I hear the festivals are very popular in the New World." Servaes could see the old vampire’s nails grazing over the backs of his fingers restlessly. Not bothering to turn around, Jirí said in his dark, steady voice, "I knew you wouldst find me, old friend." "The Bloody Tower," Servaes mused, crossing over the roof and knowing that is what the tower was called since before his human birth. "You always had an uncanny sense of irony." Sniffing the night, Jirí finally turned to face him. The air wheezed from his lungs leisurely. A smile spread across his handsome face. His voice was hoarse with indifference. "Can you not smell it? The old death? Even after centuries the deeds down below this roof still resonate -- some of them older than you, my dear Marquis. And now tourists come to listen to the horror of what was done like it was a play, with no idea of those who lived before. All of them want a piece of the past without the pain. I do not blame them. This new era is tiresome to me. There is no flavor left in the blood. It no longer tastes pure. It has become mixed and weak, like peasant’s soup." "I never believed in ghosts," Servaes stated, though he could detect of what his friend spoke. There were sensations all over the old stones, sensations of tears and pain, sensations of seasoned blood corroding in cracks and crevices, forgotten by all, never to be known again. "And you did not believe in vampyres until proven wrong," Jirí laughed shortly. "Do you still hate me for it?" "No, I do not hate you. In fact I had never even heard of a vampire when you came to me." The answer was honest. Jirí smiled as if to say, I remember. Servaes moved with his old friend to the side of the tower. He too folded his hands behind his back. They stood silently staring over the night -- neither one in a hurry to speak. They lived too long to feel rushed by time. Finally, sighing, Servaes said, "It is too long ago to remember." "Ah, but you do remember do you not," Jirí stated softly. "As do we all. Sometimes it is the only thing we can recall from the passing of time. The older you get, the faster life becomes. Worlds slip and change. The humans tear down the past, rebuild it into the future. They rename everything until nothing is recognizable." Servaes laughed a hard, sharp laugh and smiled a sad smile. Jirí turned to him, with a stark loneliness older than his own. His eyes moved slowly to the stars, not seeing them anymore as his gaze passed over. His eyes had long ago memorized their endless patterns. "And yet, what wouldst we do if we were to turn back into one of them, knowing what we know?" Jirí mused. He waved his hand over the lighted city, over the river Thames. "Our lives wouldst be but a blink, over afore they began. If we were to lose our strength, our powers? Do you think we could survive? We wouldst be as weak as they--only worse, because we know of more."


"We would have other things," Servaes said, hiding his longing. "Sunlight. Warmth. Love." "Love?" Jirí shot questioningly. "Ah yea, love. You are still the romantic aren’t you, my dear Servaes? When I first made you, you rambled on and on about lost love until I almost regretted turning you. I should have thought by now you would have given the dream up. Human emotions were never meant to last more than one lifetime. Most humans can’t make them last the entirety of that one. The only love for us is the love we have for ourselves and the others like us--the love for power and immortality." Servaes held quiet. It was an old debate between them. "Tell me," Jirí said, "did you find what you sought when you left me? Did the land of the ancients have the answers?" Servaes held quiet, still not answering. "I told you they would not. Any evidence you sought wouldst have been destroyed long ago or hidden where it would never be uncovered. But you had to look for yourself, did you not?" Jirí laughed. "I almost did not let you go that night you snuck from our chambers in Dublin." Servaes turned in surprise. "Yea, old friend, I made you what you are. I felt you leaving me afore you even conceived that you would do so, as I feel you now." Jirí chuckled, facing Servaes. Their eyes met and locked. Jirí pulled close, his fingernails stroking over his friend’s unmoving face in a tender caress. "Why have you come, Jirí? Have you grown so bored that you would seek me out? I am afraid I have nothing to offer you." Servaes knew there was more his friend wanted. It was the same with all the old souls. They lost connection to the world, searching to fill voids that had no filling. Servaes felt the loss. But he didn’t make others like him to satisfy it. Instead he sought out the young vampires to glean whatever ignorance he could from them. And there were always books. He read his way through most of the world’s immense libraries. "I am as useless as you in this modern age. I do not understand it. When I was alive I thought it such a grand thing to study and invent and learn and discover. Now look where all that science and discovery has gotten us. The world is no better off for it." "Sometimes methinks that is why man was never meant to live so long. It is depressing to think of what we have seen. The crimes are the same. Only the tools in which they are done are different." Jirí smirked. "It is good to see you again, Jirí," Servaes whispered. When Jirí didn’t answer, Servaes turned to leave. His friend’s voice stopped him. "I could taste it on the woman’s lips when I kissed her." Jirí held himself regal, dropping his wisdom like little clues he would unravel in time. "She is special, but she is not what you think her to be. I told you long ago, friend. There is naught that can make you what you were. Not the blood of your food, though she be different than other meals." "Could you read her thoughts, then?" Servaes asked. His heart gripped in curiosity for any clue as to why he couldn’t get Hathor out of his system. Jirí felt his uneasiness, though Servaes tried to hide it. "Could you see what was in her?" "Yea, I could. There are no secrets sunken in her depths -- no mysterious truths. The mortals do evolve


some with the passing of time. She is mayhap one of a new breed of humans, able to block the young ones out. You won’t be able to hide her from them for long. The others will know what you did as soon as her blood thins of yours. You must decide what you will do with her. She will not be allowed to live as she was." "I will take her from here. I tire of London." "The world is the same, my sweet Marquis de Normant." Jirí shrugged. "But go where you wouldst. Someday, the others will find you, if they do not follow you now. She frightens the young ones because they cannot control her. A frightened child with unlimited power is very formidable indeed, and when those children are banded together in stupidity, it is worse. I wouldst kill them all if I had an inclination. There are too many of them running around." "I have no choice then? Have the elders spoken on it? Is that why you are here, Jirí? To keep me in line?" Servaes turned to him. He watched the brown waves trailing about the vampire’s face, his soul shining dully from eyes nearly as old as time itself. He was still incredibly beautiful, though his features and manners were of a very archaic way. "What will you do old friend?" "It depends on you, Marquis." Jirí’s eyes shot with a hint of pleasure at their old familiar friendship. Servaes was always one of his favorites, though at times it had been resentfully so. "What will you do with her?" "I will tend to it. I will make her my familiar or I will turn her as you did me," Servaes said after a moment’s thought. The admission was reluctant. "You will turn one after all these years?" Jirí chuckled merrily. "You have grown tired in your convictions if you will make her your first after so long. Just be sure your blood is not too strong for her, eh." Servaes didn’t laugh, turning his face to the stars he barely saw. In the back of his mind, he pictured the endless photographs of clouds and sunsets that he found in the libraries. He was unable to recall what the day looked like on his own. "And if she refuses you?" Jirí asked, his humor fading as quickly as it came. "You will give her a choice, will you not? After the decades I had to listen to you whine about never getting a choice." "I will ask her, when my blood has cleared from her veins. Her head will be unclouded then." Servaes sighed. He noticed that hours had passed since he left Hathor. The night was halfway over. He wondered if she was scared without him. "And how much will you tell her? How much will you show?" inquired Jirí. Servaes didn’t answer, not knowing. "And if she says nay?" Jirí persisted. "Then I will kill her," Servaes stated without passion. Jirí nodded in approval. "There was a complaint made, is all, about you putting the Vampire Club in danger by letting a mortal go. Honestly, the elders do not care about a nonsensical club of young ones. The new breed complains too much and does too little. We have discussed killing them all off. But it would break too many of the old codes and cause a war between the tribes."


"The young ones are a product of their era, as we are a product of our antiquated times," Servaes answered without passion. "They are what they have been bred to be." Jirí laughed. "I knew it was naught to be concerned over. I told the council as much when we spoke. I told them you are my descendent, and of the tribe of Moroi. I knew you wouldn’t betray us." "No, Jirí, I will not betray you," Servaes stated darkly. "Nor would I ever betray the others." "You are loyal, Servaes. Now, as a friend, what is it you want to ask me?" Jirí inquired. He gave a benevolent glance at the younger vampire’s face. "There is more," Servaes admitted, not surprised by Jirí’s insight. He turned his eyes back to the sky. "How so?" "I cannot read her either, but she can feel me. I entranced her with my mind, and she broke free of it once I had a hold," said Servaes, thinking of that night in the club when she refused him, and then later when they danced and she pulled out of his arms. "I had her bound to my will, and I didn’t slip. Never has my hold been as strong as it was with her." "Hm, I heard whispers of this long ago when the land was still divided by countryside. It is rare," admitted Jirí. "Not reading them is one thing. But, as old as you are, not being able to control them, especially after they are in your power is another completely." "What does it mean?" "Naught mayhap, yet perchance something." Jirí smiled wryly. A hint of longing passed over his eyes. "I’d be jealous of you Marquis, if I could feel such a thing. I should like my existence to again be blessed with mystery. Tell me again, what did you see when I turned you?" "A bird." "Do you know what it means?" Jirí questioned in wonder. "No, I cannot even remember what it looked like. Only that it was a bird." Servaes closed his eyes trying to recall. However, as with many things, time faded the image that once had been so clear. Every vampire was different. When one was turned a vision would appear. None knew what the vision meant. Some thought it a random moment, others believed it to be a weapon of salvation, and yet others thought it to be a thing from the past -- a key to their beginnings. "Hm." Jirí raised his hands helplessly. "Unless you figure it out soon, you know what must be done. Hathor cannot be allowed to live as she is. Already her legend grows amongst the young. Soon others will come to overrun London. They will want a chance to taste her." "Oui, m’lord," Servaes said, bowing slightly at the waist as he backed away. His respectful smile was of the old way. Decidedly, he vowed, "If she does not join me, I’ll take her mortal life one way or another." "Very well, I will inform the council," acknowledged Jirí, before stopping Servaes’ departure with a solemn look. "I’m leaving for the Island of Delos for the great feast. I’ll be gone a human month at least, so long as the Vrykolatios do not over do it like last time. Damned tribe had twenty-five naked humans


strapped to the dining table almost every night, their blood full of absinthe and laudanum. I did not come to my senses for a year." Servaes quiet laughter joined Jirí’s. "You cannot find those drugs anymore." "There are ways," Jirí said with a gentle laugh. Then, shrugging, as if it didn’t matter like so many other things around them, he said, "Today there are other draughts that work just as well when it comes to dulling your senses. But none in my mind compare to tasting emotions -- so sweet, so bitter, so full of life. It is like a surge of renewal if you can find the right one." "Travel safe, Jirí." Servaes again bowed. "I will not give you cause to come back to London." Jirí again shrugged. "Like I said, one place is as good as another. It matters naught to me. But I will do you one thing, my friend. I will give you the gift of time. I will tell the others that the girl lives. I will tell them to leave you be with her until I arrive back. If I say it, it will be assumed as the will of the tribes. But you must move her from your cave in the rafters. Take her below, to the crypts beneath the church or somewhere else where the others would not find you. And do not think of it, lest your thoughts betray you." "Why would you do this?" Servaes asked. "Why do you care to help us?" Because I didn’t give you a choice. Servaes heard the whisper in his head, Jirí’s lips didn’t move. The vampire’s eyes narrowed in sadness. Servaes knew that Jirí wanted him to go with him to America. It is why he mentioned the festivals. Jirí smiled, knowing Servaes knew and wouldn’t again be joining him. Then, with a leap, Jirí disappeared over the side of the Bloody Tower, fading into the night sky. Servaes watched the old vampire disappear before spreading his arms wide to encompass the city. With a jump he fell through the darkness, over the city until he came to the underground tunnels. No humans detected him as he passed. He chose to stay hidden. Even if they were to notice him, it would be as a blur of the vision and they would never known what it was they saw. Hathor was asleep when Servaes finally made it back to his tomb. She had moved out of the coffin, curling into a ball on the stone floor. For a moment, he gazed at the pretty lines of her face, peaceful in her rest. Already, he could feel her blood thinning of his, the bond not as strong as before. Soon she would be ready for daylight. The thought troubled him. He selfishly didn’t want to let her go. Leaning down, he ran his fingers over her rose tinted cheek. Her complexion was soft and creamy, not at all reminiscent of the blue-like paleness of his lifeless hand against her flesh. Drawing the tips of his fingers just over and between her eyes, he tried to extract her dreams from within. For a second he had the image of a flower surrounded by a bright light. His hand jerked, pulling instinctively away. Slowly, her eyes opened. Her lashes fluttered across her velvet cheeks. The blue orbs found his, smiling contentedly at him from their bright depths. With a yawn, she sat up. "Where were you?" she mumbled sleepily. Her hand began to reach for him but faltered and fell to the side. His face looked tired as he moved to grab her hand. Lifting it, he placed it to his cheek where she had been meaning to touch him. Closing his eyes, he breathed in the scent of her. She watched him in wonder of his gentleness.


"We must move," he said at last. His eyes didn’t open. "This place might not be safe enough for you." "How --" Hathor began in a panic. Her rounded gaze flew to the entrance. "I met with an old friend tonight," Servaes interrupted. With regret, he let her hand go and moved to stand above her. "He will speak with the others tomorrow. He will tell them not to harm you." "But I thought you were their leader," she mumbled in confusion. "I saw you controlling them." "I am merely the oldest at the club. They look to me to lead them in some matters because my powers are greater. But there are no true leaders amongst us. Everyone must guide themselves, so long as they do not break the sacred laws." Servaes wondered why he revealed so much to her. It only made matters worse for her. "And why would they listen to this other? Who is he? What is his name?" Hathor shot, standing quickly to her feet. "He is one of the old. He is well respected amongst tribes," Servaes answered. "His name is --" "Jirí." Hathor chimed in, finishing the thought. With a look of horror, she shook her head frantically. Begging Servaes with a cry of desperation, she said, "He was there. He said he couldn’t read me and then told the others to kill me. He wants me dead. I don’t think we should trust him. It’s a trap." "We have no choice," Servaes said, coming beside her. "If Jirí wished you truly dead, you would be so. He saved your life leaving you with Vincent." Hathor shook her head, doubtful. "So where will we move to?" Servaes sighed despairingly. "The catacombs, mayhap." "Catacombs? As in dead bodies and bones?" Hathor shuddered in disgust. "I would rather not." "We could always find a graveyard. I do not frequent them much, but surely there is an uninhabited mausoleum we could hide in," Servaes offered. "Although, they are not always the most comfortable of accommodations, and they smell." "Does it have to be such a dreadful place? Or could we sleep anywhere so long there was a coffin?" "Anywhere," Servaes admitted. "Why? Do you know of a place?" "Yes, I just might." A smile spread over her beautiful features. The look pulled at his heart. "How about my house, well, my aunt’s house?" "I do not know. Won’t your aunt be leery about having a coffin in her home?" Servaes wondered. "Most mortals are. Once we are asleep we cannot be disturbed." "Not at all. She won’t know." Hathor grinned, warming to her idea. "The house is very old, well," she shot him a sheepish look of penitence, "it is older than living mortals." Servaes raised an eyebrow at her words.


"Well, you are rather … aged." "Very amusing," he answered dryly, though he couldn’t make his look of feigned annoyance last. Her easy acceptance all of a sudden stirred within him. His eyes took in the curve of her delectable lips. "The basement used to be the servant quarters and kitchen. It is all very well maintained, though hardly used except during the tourist season by some of the live-in staff. Right now they are completely empty. I don’t even think anyone has been down there in months, at least not towards the back rooms. You could stay there until the summer." Hathor beamed up into his handsome face. "What do you think?" "I think it sounds better than a graveyard," he admitted at last, nodding his head in agreement. "Fair enough, we will try it." "Good," Hathor stated, satisfied. She bit her lip thoughtfully. Then, with a gasp at her sudden thought, she said, "Here, watch this." She began looking over the ground for a sharp rock. Finding one, she held it up for his inspection, and said, "It is really neat. I jumped out of the bed … coffin earlier and stubbed my toe. Anyway, watch." Taking the rock’s edge, she cut into her arm. She winced slightly at the sharp pain, and then held up her arm for his inspection. Servaes smelled her blood, his eyes instantly filling to attention. His stomach lurched. His heart sped slightly. Hathor didn’t notice his discomfort. She waited for the throbbing to stop and the wound to heal itself shut. It didn’t. "I don’t understand it," she frowned in frustration. "It did it earlier. The skin closes on its own so fast that you can see it heal. And there is no scar left. It is like it never happened." "Have you been up here doing that?" he asked painfully. "Ah, I was bored and it was … entertaining," she admitted sheepishly. Hathor’s eyes turned to study him at the sound of his hoarse voice. His eyes were drawing red, his lips snarled to show the tips of his fangs. He was staring intently at her wound. Instantly, she drew her arm away and placed it behind her back. Stuttering, she said, "I’m sorry. Please don’t eat me. I didn’t think it would bother you." By slow degrees Servaes’ eyes cleared, his mouth closed. He shut his eyes, as he retorted, "That is why you were so tired as to fall asleep again. Healing takes much out of you. You have expended your energies." "Servaes," Hathor mumbled weakly. She looked at him through the scared eyes of a woman who didn’t understand what was happening. Her face paled dramatically, her lips edged with an icy blue. Thin purplish lines began to crawl, pulsing across her face, starting at her hairline and trailing like little rivers across her flesh. She swayed on her feet, stumbling forward towards him. Her eyes rolled back in her head, as he caught her to his chest. "I don’t feel so well." "You need my blood," he growled with a dark passion. He lifted her into his arms and carried her to the coffin. Hoisting the lid, he dumped her unceremoniously inside. Her head reeled back, stiffening in pain. Her mouth opened with a gasp, working desperately to stifle a shriek. "What?" she began, unable to continue as a wave of anguish crossed over her body. Her hands found the material at her sides, ripping it into shreds as she thrashed about.


"You used too much of the energy I gave you playing around like that! You need my blood. But if I give it to you now, I will not have the strength to get us to your house. Do you understand?" Servaes looked at the drastically changed pallor of her features, turning a deeper gray under his gaze. Her cheekbones became more prominent under her skin, stretching inward as her body began to cave in on itself. Death was coming to try and claim her. Hastily, he began to shut the lid. "Servaes," she gasped, desperate to stop him. When he looked down at her, she gasped, "your trunk." Servaes grunted in dismay, grasping the trunk with lightening speed. He placed it at her feet in the coffin before shutting her in. She smiled slightly before convulsing in agony. Her chest lurched forward, her head digging into the satiny cushion. Her mouth parted with a high, piercing scream. Servaes felt her limbs agitate violently as he hauled her behind him. He towed the coffin into the tunnel, trying to keep a firm grasp on it as it shivered and shook with the force of her agony. The muffled sounds of her screams reverberated around him, torturing him. He managed to lower her to the floor, awed by the strength of her resistance. Then, as he lifted the coffin up on his arm and grasped it tightly to his shoulder, he tried not to let it fall. The sound of her pain tortured his blood to filling with an unusual fire. His body sought to heal that which it had saved as she called out to him. And, with grim determination, he sped faster into the night, hoping he wasn’t too late.

Chapter Nine

The hollow shell of night lessened, bearing witness to the travelers as they sought refuge from the threat of day. The moon drew closer to the earth, its pull sending chills of warning through Servaes that he needed to find his rest. Desperation overcame him, a burning need to fight against time as he sped under the weight of his coffin. Hathor slashed and tore beneath the paneling of wood. He heard the satin lining rip with each excruciating tug as she tried to dig herself out of the box. Her short nails pawed and scratched violently at the lid, threatening to open it against his hold. Servaes grunted as she kicked viciously at his arm. Her graying fingers slipped out of the side. The thin hands looked almost skeletal as she reached threateningly for him. He knew she was not of her own mind. Hathor’s body was taking over with its primal hunger. The last of his blood was fighting within her. It was a power that none could control. With a heavy force, he pushed her hand back in and readjusted the lid so that she was trapped. With solemn relief, he came through the iron gates of Kennington House. Servaes couldn’t notice the silvery moonlit treetops or the gentle glowing of pathway lights that led back to the gardens. His feet


raced over the cobblestone drive, up the sweeping arch of front steps. With a wave of his hand he unbolted the locked house easily, not needing to touch the old wood. The front door flew open under the direction of his will. Servaes hauled the coffin into the front hall, setting it on the floor as tenderly as he could manage in his haste. Then, opening the lid, he let the wild screams of the woman inside echo in the barren room. "Hathor," he soothed, motioning his hand over his shoulder to slam the front door shut. He reached down to touch her thinning corpse hair. Her eyes popped open, ringed completely red with the last of his blood to stare at him from sunken depths. Her blue lips, thin lines which held back from her yellowing teeth, trembled in agony. Ripped satin surrounded the deathlike pallor of her skin and the gaunt skeletal appearance of her once beautiful features. At the sound of his soothing voice she calmed from the scream. Hathor gazed at Servaes’ face, listening to his hushed murmurs as he spoke to her in the low words of his native tongue. Her lungs wheezed in horrible pants, loud and raspy, the breaths seeming to seethe, help me. She didn’t move within the coffin, her weakened limbs without muscles beneath the sagging, wrinkled flesh. Once he had her attention, Servaes quickly bit his arm, slashing it open with his fangs. He winced at the shot of pain the needlessly deep gash caused. Blood dripped on the white satin of his coffin, staining the tattered material in little red trails. Hathor’s body smelled the blood, her nose twitched. Like a demon possessed, she shot out of the coffin, smashing into Servaes’ body. She landed on top of him with a thud, her thighs straddling his waist to keep him from escaping. Her emaciated fingers clutched his arm, pulling the wound greedily to her lips. Her starving mouth clasped around him, sucking hard at the life-giving nectar of his blood. Servaes let out a moan, half in pleasure and part in pain, as she drank against his flesh. Blood streamed over them, staining their shirts. The hot rivulets pulled erotically at his skin, making it tingle. Her lips slid easily against him. She took his offered life into her mouth, lapping and tasting. His eyes closed, his back arched as she endeavored to drain him. Pleasure akin to that of a light orgasm cursed through him. "Enough, Hathor," he growled in a weak pant, forcing her mouth away. Her face filled with life, and her eyes glowed with an unearthly beauty. For a moment her lips followed his wound greedily as it healed shut. He grabbed her wrists in his hands and stretched her arms out to the side, stopping her easily with his superior strength. The motion pulled her stained shirt tightly against her breasts. Urgently, he commanded, "Enough. You take too much." He watched as her eyes began to clear. The blue slowly moved to dominate the red. She swayed above him, her lips stained crimson with his blood. A red current flowed over the corners of her mouth, down her chin and throat. Suddenly, she leaned over with a mighty groan and pressed her mouth to his. Servaes stiffened, taken by surprise. His body was too weak to fight her, not that he wanted to try. Her lips moved against his with a fervent longing. He could taste himself on her, the salty tang of blood sweetened by fear and desire. Her mouth parted, drinking in his moans of delight and matching them with her own. Her hips rubbed against his midsection, prompting his member to rise from within the folds of his clothing. Servaes pressed intimately next to her. Keeping hold of her wrists, he turned quickly to roll her onto the hard marble floor. His mouth pulled from her lips only to trail over her throat in dangerous kisses. His tongue licked her flesh, tasting his own essence marking her skin. He brought her pinned


wrists above her head, holding her beneath him with one palm. His free hand began to explore her body, gliding over warm fluids with urgency to her perky breasts, ripened with desire. Hathor pressed frantically against him, helpless with craving. When he massaged himself into her parted legs, she howled in beastly approval. His name came from her lips in a panted whisper. Suddenly, she gasped. His gaze met with hers. She stared up at him in confusion from the depths of her cloudless eyes. Her slender arms remained motionless, trapped above her. Her mouth worked, but didn’t say the things she meant to. Hathor’s eyes fluttered into blackness as she passed out. Servaes groaned, his gaze glowing strangely in physical pain. His body lurched in denial. Slowly, he rolled from her, his heart racing wildly as he lay next to her on the stone. He refused to look at her, blacked out and oblivious to the passion she aroused so daringly within him. He knew that soon he wouldn’t be able to control it. He would take her. He would claim her body and find his release within her. He couldn’t stop it now even if he wanted to. Shuddering, he sensed the rising of the sun. Weakly pushing himself on his hands and knees, he crawled to the coffin’s opened lid. Grabbing Hathor’s motionless body by the leg, he dragged her to across the marble floor to his side. Then, gathering her up, he dropped her artlessly within the coffin and went forth crawling to the basement, dragging his bed behind him.

**** Again when Hathor awoke, Servaes was gone. She knew he went to hunt and tried not to think on it. He left the coffin’s lid open for her and a hall light on to shine thoughtfully into the dim basement bedroom. Her body was relaxed as she crawled out from his bed. She barely recognized the room he picked for them. It was close to the basement stairs, an old servant’s chamber with no window. A single bed was in the room along with a dresser. Servaes’ coffin lay atop the bed’s sturdy mattress. Moving to close the top, Hathor frowned. Inside, the white satin was torn and had traces of blood. Vaguely, she recalled being trapped within the darkness, unable to see through her fading eyes, fighting to be free of an intense pain that sunk in her rotting flesh and turned her bones to dust. The pain had been terrible, all consuming. Blinking heavily to erase the memories, she pushed the coffin’s lid down and shut the bedroom door behind her as she left. The basement was less lavish than the rooms upstairs. But its pristine halls were well kept. The hallway walls were done in a very serviceable caramel color, with matching tiled floor. Inside the comparable bedrooms were a variety of beds and dressers. Some of them had small windows peeking up from the basement, though most didn’t. The hall worked around a large central kitchen completely equipped to handle catering for large banquets. She turned off the lights as she walked until her path was scarcely lighted by the moonlight coming in through the back door. Quietly, she wandered upstairs. Her stomach growled for food until she realized that she hadn’t eaten for over a day. Everything she felt seemed three times as intense. Taking a pastry from the counter, she ate it in slow bites. The rich food tasted bland and rolled in her mouth like a rock until she forced herself to swallow. Dreams, seductive and wild, filled the day hours while she slept. She could only imagine that the erotic tendency of them was due to her altered state. Never before had dreams of one man left her aching with a need she couldn’t comprehend. Everything she felt was passionate. Her skin jumped alive at the barest


brush of softness, her toes curled longingly into the thick carpet. Even her fingers stayed too long in her hair as she scratched her scalp. Servaes’ life flowed through her veins like a euphoric drug. Her breasts ached and tingled. Her stomach throbbed. Leaving the house dark, she moved up the stairs intent on taking a shower. Her clothes smelled horrible, of musty earth and sweat. As she drew out of them, she frowned at the red stain covering her breasts and shoulder, where her bloody shirt adhered to her flesh. The linen was glued to her, and the shirt resisted when she tried to pull it off. Yanking the stiff material, she tore it from her skin. She showered quickly, scrubbing roughly at her skin and hair, shaving her legs and armpits. Then, wrapped in a warm towel, she padded barefoot across the hall to her room. Shutting the door behind her, she looked around slowly. Her bedcovers were still rumpled from sleep. She had only been gone a few days, but so much had happened that she felt like a stranger standing in the middle of the plush carpet. As she slid into a pair of sweat pants and a T-shirt, part of her wondered if the ones who wanted her dead would come for her. Servaes seemed convinced that they wouldn’t, but she wasn’t so sure. She had seen the death in Jirí’s eyes. He was not a vampire she would trust. Although, she couldn’t help but wonder if she was foolish in trusting Servaes as she did. She had seen the bloodlust in his gaze when he eyed her open wound. Besides, what chance was there for a human and vampire? Taking a brush to her hair, she smoothed it away from her face to hang about her shoulders. She wasn’t tired, but she made her way to her bed anyway. Laying down on it, she spread her limbs, liking the feel of the soft coverlet beneath her and the wideness of the space. Then, seeing the balcony doors, she sat up and crossed over to open them. The night was cool with the fragrance of fall. The wind blew around her in lonely wistfulness. Looking up into the beautiful night, she couldn’t stop herself from pondering what it would be like to never again see daylight. The idea left her cold and hollow. Quickly, she shut the balcony doors, not wanting anyone to see her -- alive or undead. "I wondered where you had gone to." Servaes’ words were light as he watched her from the bed. Running his hand over the soft material as if he had been there for ages, he murmured wistfully, "I almost forgot what a bed felt like. Though this is much softer than the one I had so long ago." Hathor eyed him nervously, "How did you get in here?" "Surely, you must realize by now that we vampires can travel without being seen," he stated blandly. His hand motioned to her bedroom door that had been shut a moment before but now was cracked open. She nodded. Weakly, she asked, "Where were you tonight?" Servaes read the meaning in her eyes and didn’t like it. He saw that more of his blood had been filtered out of her. She was once again becoming more human and less placated in her curiosity. "You know what I was about," he answered smoothly, his dark accent illuminated by his baleful meaning. "Or were you searching for details? Shall I take you out and show you?" "Why are you getting angry at me? I didn’t force you to be whatever it is you are." "I am a vampire," he interjected when she paused for breath. "And now that I have finished my lunch, it


is time for you to come and get yours." "I ate a pastry," she said weakly with a shrug. His eyebrow raised slightly in amusement. "I don’t want your blood," she denied feebly. It was a lie. She did want it, and it disgusted her that she could so lust for something so forbidden. "You have no choice. I will not wait until you are to the point that you attack me as you did last night. I barely had enough strength to get us in the basement and safely put away in our bed." Standing, he strode across the carpet to her. Seeing her fear, he frowned. "Take it, before I decide to force it down your throat … how do you Americans put it? The hard way." Wrinkling her brow defiantly, she opened her mouth and widened her eyes expectedly. Servaes chuckled. He watched her, never taking his penetrating gaze away from hers. Slowly, he lifted his arm to his mouth and bit into it. A trail of blood crossed over his pale jaw as he held the wound out to her. Gulping, she slowly leaned forward. She remembered all too well the pain her withdrawal caused. It was a searing fire that tore through her to her bones. She could feel her skin pulling apart, deteriorating with years in only a moment. She recalled leaping out at him with a hunger so intense it shook her to the core. But that was all she could remember. After that she went blank. Eyeing the wound prudently, she asked, "Am I going to pass out again?" Servaes tilted his head to the side, as if to say, who can tell. Licking her lips, she watched his face as she leaned over to him. Looking at his wound she tried to taste it and hesitated. "Hurry," he commanded, hiding his smile, "before it closes." Shooting him an angry glare, she put her mouth on his arm. The sweet flavor of him filled her instantly, forcing her to swallow or gag. But, as she tasted him, she found that she liked it. He felt so close to her, her body felt alive with the fire of him coursing throughout. She could hear the beating of his heart, humming inside her own. His scent whirled around her head. Her lashes fluttered dreamily, closing with rapture. Servaes moaned at her gentle movements, not as greedy as before but like a deep caress against him. Closing his eyes, he tilted his head back. Hoarsely, he whispered in a passionate murmur, "Stop." Hathor drew her lips away in regret. The wound closed before her eyes. Glancing up to him, she saw his upturned face, the trail of his blood having moved over his neck to the base of his throat from where he had bitten himself. Pushing his arm aside, she went to him. Hathor licked the trail from his neck with her tongue. Servaes stiffened as she moved up him in soft kisses. Leaning his head down as she passed over his chin, he didn’t move to hold her. His penetrating gaze watched her face. Her eyes were closed to him. The tender strokes of her mouth were a very unfamiliar sensation to his skin. Her mouth went to his lips, licking every drop from his warm flesh. Her tongue lapped inside his parted lips, stopping when they felt the barrier of his fangs. She pulled back from him with a confused jolt of surprise.


Backing away, she swallowed hard, "I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that." Servaes frowned. His eyes bore into her as they glinted in silver, purple and green slivers. If he had been human his lungs would have panted uncontrollably for air. Finally, he nodded. "It is fine, Hathor. Think not on it." Her limbs felt alive with energy. Her heart thudded out of control. She could still feel the press of his mouth against hers. Servaes sat down on the bed, weakened. He lowered his head. "Are you all right?" she inquired. "I will be." She went to him. Gently pulling his arms, she laid him on her bed. Servaes glanced at her in astonishment. She smiled gently with tender concern. Whispering, she said, "Lie and build your strength." Servaes did as she bid, moving gracefully back onto her pillow. She looked down at him questioningly. "No," he said. "What?" she questioned in surprise. "I said nothing." He chuckled. "You were wondering if you could get me anything. The answer is no, not unless you have a willing sacrifice that I could feed on." "Can’t you eat cows or chickens?" she inquired softly. "Does it have to be human blood? I might have some steak in the deep freeze. There should be some blood in that." "Ugh," he wrinkled his face in disgust at the very thought. His pale hand moved to fall over his eyes. The long fingernails pointed up at the ceiling. "The blood must be fresh. I could eat live animals, and I have. But it would be like you trying to survive on nothing but bugs. Not very filling, not appetizing, and after awhile you would start to get malnourished and weak. Only with us, the pain is greater and we would never die from it." Hathor stood quiet. She couldn’t keep her eyes from roaming over him. His body was well toned -- lean and hard. His movements were graceful and defined. He crossed his legs leisurely at the ankles. Her hands itched to grasp the side of his calf and explore up his inner thigh. Her breasts were heavy with the need to rub their naked tips to his bare chest. Her flesh longed for his flesh, her mouth for his mouth, her body for the force of his body. She wondered if he could even claim her as a man. His body was not like hers. Assuredly, it couldn’t ache for her the way she did for him. No, what he ached for was her blood -her life’s liquid to fulfill his needs. He had no other uses for her body. The thought left her faint. "How do you choose? Do you hurt them?" she asked softly, trying to understand him, his dark world. Her words were not accusing. She knew she should hate him and his kind for preying on mortals, but humans preyed on themselves for much less. At least he needed to kill for survival, whereas her kind did it often for sick pleasures. "There are those of us that try to make it as pleasurable a death as possible," he admitted. "Choosing is not hard. Almost any will do so long as the blood is fresh. It is much like you deciding what you will have for your supper. Only we decide if we would dine on passion or fear or self-contempt. There are any wide varieties of emotions that flavor the blood. Then you have your modern medicines and drugs. They


too flavor the blood. As does one’s heritage. Besides, not all humans need to live. Some of you aren’t very kind." "But how do you know which ones?" she wondered aloud. "My particular tribe is very good at reading thoughts and controlling actions. We can delve within the mind and learn what that person has done, what they are doing and thinking. I have heard it said that some of the older ones, older that I, can read far into person’s future -- to an extent. That is why you intrigue us so, that is why the others wanted to kill you. Your mind is closed." "So you are our judge," she concluded, "like with Franklin?" "One of them, I suppose." He lifted his hand from his eyes but didn’t look directly at her. The wondrous light still stirred in his gaze but was beginning to fade. He kept himself steady, as not to attack her and force her into his bed. Slowly he sat up, reaching a cooling hand to her cheek. Calmly, he murmured, "At first I had a hard time of it. I could remember what it was to be like you. But, as the years passed, I realized it is a food chain. It is our survival. If there is a reason for you to be here, than assuredly there is a reason for me." "Can you turn back?" she inquired. Her eyes dipped under the long tips of her lashes. Her cheeks colored with a blush. "No, there is no way," he answered in a soft tone. "My body is long dead." "So you don’t miss it? You don’t miss being human?" Her gaze captivated him. He wondered at the sadness in her. "There are things -- sunlight, warmth, waking next to someone warm and naked in my arms." His eyes dipped to her parted mouth, her breath even and low. "But --" she hesitated. Her body stirred and pulsed with longing. His soft, melodic voice filled her head. She wanted to succumb to him, to his charming movements, the soothing tilt to his soft voice. Though, inside his eyes she saw a lingering hardness that not even he could hide. Whispering, he leaned closer to her. His nose brushed alongside her nose, the side of his mouth murmured into hers, "Touching flesh with no desire to bite it." Hathor turned her face away. Her fingers dug into the bed. Her throat became dry. "And there is the loneliness, more unbearable than you could imagine. Whole worlds pass you by. Lifespans slip by within an instant." His voice was distinct and clear. His gaze never left her face. There was sorrow in his confession. "To me you will be dead in only a fraction of my life, and soon this moment will become a hazy dream until it fades altogether. And no matter how hard I cling to it, it will eventually fade." "I am the next meal on your menu then?" she asked, unable to stop the thrill the idea caused. She could feel the energy of him swirling in her head. Her body shook, desperately wanting to be known by him. But her mind held back, frightened that he couldn’t feel as she did. "No," he stated, pulling away. His gaze misted, as he murmured huskily, "I will not harm you. At least, I will try my best not to. But I do want you. I want to feel your body. I want to see your naked flesh. And


yes, I do want to take your blood. I want to feel myself inside of you. I want to feel your blood within me. I want us to join." "But, I thought vampires … you couldn’t have se -- do that sort of thing," Hathor stuttered. She leaned away from him, frighteningly aroused. She stood and moved from the bed. Her feet stumbled in her weakened haste. He followed her with the floating grace of a weightless feather. "What? Sex?" he questioned in bluntly spoken amusement. "Why ever would you think that?" "Well, in books, movies," she defended delicately. "Ah, oui," Servaes chuckled. He could smell her desire as she tried to suppress it. Her breasts heaved under her cotton shirt. He could see the lacy design of her undergarment outlining the shape of her breasts. She was not immune to his words of lust. "It is sometimes rare, but we can. In fact, it is more pleasurable for us in some ways." "How?" she inquired before she could stop herself. She gulped, moving farther away as if she could escape him by running through the cracked bedroom door. He glanced over her shoulder, knowing what she was doing. He continued to follow her around the bed. "We feel more. We taste and see more." "Then you’ve done … do it often?" she probed. She glanced behind her. The doorknob was close. Her fingers trembled. His eyes dared her to try. She jolted for the door. It slammed shut before she could reach it. Her hands stopped in mid-action, never bothering to test the latch to see if it would open. Instead, she turned and ran into her dressing room to the other side of the vanity. He followed her easily, gliding towards her without effort. "Not for years," he said continuing the conversation with poetic ease. The light of the hunt found his eyes. "But Ginger said she saw you take a woman on stage," declared Hathor, running for the dressing room door hidden by the side of the vanity. She made it through before he could stop her. With a grin, he went after her, liking the chase. Hathor made it to the staircase, skipping steps as she raced from him. Then, seeing him at the foot of the stairs, she halted to a stop halfway down, nearly tumbling forward as her feet slipped. She grabbed the rail to keep from falling and pulled herself back up. Servaes grinned up at her, a devilishly handsome effort. Unhurriedly, he stepped up, one leisured movement at a time. Hathor backed away, shaking her head in denial of his pursuit. It didn’t dissuade him. "Ginger is lying. I’ve only done it a few times, right after I turned. I did not think it would be possible to do it again. I thought I was too old," he smirked. His eyes said that he would have no such problem. Hathor shivered at his promise, wanting to stop fighting him. But she was too frightened. Her body shook in indecision. Her mind trembled in insecurity. How could she perform under such daunting circumstances? It wasn’t as if she was experienced enough to be with one of her own kind that was wild in his tastes, let alone a handsome vampire that tasted most of the world and knew and saw more than she could ever imagine. "Why would she lie?" Hathor once again made it to the top of the stairs. She started to run the length of the house, tripping when she bumped into an antique table. The vase of silk flowers fell to the ground,


roaring onto the floor in a shattering crash. Crawling up as quickly as she could, she met with Servaes’ eyes. He was in front of her. His hand reached out to touch her cheek in a gentle caress. The movement met with air as she jerked her face away. "She was trying to seduce you with human words. She was unlucky that night in finding a suitable partner and thought to take you as her own. But I wanted you. I laid claim to you." Servaes’ fingernails tried again and succeeded in grazing her cheek. She jerked back, trying to run the other way. She leapt over the shards of broken glass, avoiding injury. Servaes moved to block her path again, shaking his head with a small, tsk, tsk. "Then, are you saying, you want to … uh … be with me like that?" Hathor trembled. Tears entered her eyes. Her lips bent and stretched in alarm. Servaes held back, curiously moved by her rejection. He studied her for a moment. Drawing up, he stated boldly, "I’m telling you I am going to be with you like that. Why are you resisting?" Now?! Hathor shivered in alarm. Weakly, she asked, "What if I don’t want it?" At that he laughed, his hands moving at his sides. "You cannot lie to me. I feel that you do. I can smell --" "I don’t want to," she broke in harshly. "I don’t care what you think to smell on me. I don’t want to be with you like that. Why can’t you just leave me be?" "It’s too late for that." Servaes didn’t move, and she didn’t bother to try and run again. She knew it would do no good. If he wanted to catch her, he could. "No, it’s not. Just go away," she pleaded, growing desperate. She was scared of him, scared of what she felt. "The last time you bid me to leave you regretted it and came after me. Tell me what you wanted from me then?" "To give you back that necklace. I told you that. I felt bad for my rude behavior and thought to apologize. I thought you were human." Hathor placed her hand on the guardrail as she backed up through the opened section of the upstairs hall. She looked down over the side, tempted to jump and knowing she would break her legs if she tried. She wondered if his blood would mend her. "You lie," he asserted. "How can I want you? I don’t even know you." Hathor moved back. Her fingers gripped tighter to the rail. She thought she might try sliding down the pole. Servaes’ eyes lit in amusement at that declaration. Nothing could have been further from the truth. She knew him as sure as she knew herself, since she had become a part of him. Besides, he thought, since when do humans have to be acquainted to have sex? "Oui chéri, you do. You can feel me inside of you now." Servaes’ words stopped her. Her pale face watched him through the dim light. At his husky plea, she closed her eyes with a shiver. "Open up, feel me within you. All I offer is pleasure. Why would you deny yourself it?"


"I can’t. I’m frightened of you," she admitted at last. "I’m frightened of how it would be. I’m frightened because I can’t trust you. I don’t know who you are, who you were. You are right though, about one thing, I do know you through your blood. But that is feelings, emotions. I don’t know the real you, and I refuse to want you." "Do not be frightened, petite. Give over your mind to me. Let me read it. In doing so, you will read mine. All the answers you seek are there." Servaes wondered suddenly why he offered such to her. He only sought to give her physical pleasure and find his own immortal release. Such a thing he proposed was rare. Often the mortal who gained such knowledge had to be killed or enslaved. "I can’t do it," she whispered. "How do I know this isn’t a trick to take over and control me?" "Then let me show you who I am," Servaes murmured. He was by her ear, next to her chest. His arms wrapped slowly around her, folding her pliable body to him. His heart hammered nervously, as he whispered, "Let me show you who I was." Unable to resist, Hathor nodded. He drew her in, his voice the softened caress of a lover’s comforting hand. She closed her eyes, feeling him against the length of her. Holding her to him, he unlaced the neckline of his shirt, pulling it apart to expose his chest above his beating heart. "Drink," he ordered. "Drink from my heart and see." Hathor looked into the deep, vulnerable pools of his eyes. They searched her with the sadness of over three hundred years. Her gaze trailed over his handsomely pale face, to where his fingernail rested over his flesh. For a moment the sweet sound of violins strummed about them, faint as if coming from outside. Moving his finger, he pressed his sharp nail into his muscle. A thin trail beaded behind the gesture, bubbling up on his skin. The darkness of his offering was a stark contrast to the ashen-hue of his flesh. Glancing up briefly to receive his nod, she lowered her mouth to him. Servaes placed his hand over her head, holding her to his chest. She could hear the chanting of his voice all around her. His lips didn’t move. The world slowed. Time cracked and groaned, stopping with the frozen beats of her heart. Licking his strong chest, she felt his muscles flex beneath her tongue. He helped her to move, urging her to take his life within her once more. Servaes moaned. Hathor gasped. And, together, their minds faded into an all-consuming darkness.

Chapter Ten


Palace of Versailles, Court of King Louis XIV, Versailles, France, 1682 AD

The bright sun shone with summer over the beautiful palace gardens, which stretched out of the immense royal residence. Dutiful servants opened two wide French doors to the day. Great stone steps led down to a platform lined by intricately carved railings detailed with swirls and fleurs-de-lis supported by pillars. Beyond this platform down more curved steps stretched a magnificent open courtyard. The garden was laid out in symmetrical design, measured to perfection, with shorn grasses of the truest green, evenly placed shrubs, marble statues and smaller fountains. The fleur-de-lis, being the armorial emblem of the kings of France, was formed in the swirling patterns of the garden shrubs, cut to distinction in the green even fields. In the middle of the gardens was a wide walkway, leading far into the distance to a stone building constructed into a grassy incline. Halfway to the building was a large circular fountain, spraying water high into the air. Noble couples strolled leisurely, spotting the gardens with their richly elaborate clothing. Men wore flat, saucer-like hats with wide brims, decorated with brightly drooping feathers and ribbon trim. Beneath the hats were their long periwigs, curled to the shoulders, some powered white and others left a more natural brown. Rows of buttons, fastened only to the waist, trailed over the fronts of embroidered doublets -red and gold, blue and silver, yellows and every color in-between -- hanging to mid-thigh. The close fitting jackets hung over waistcoats of matching colors. Lace cravats fitted the necks and lace shirt cuffs hung from the stiff side cuffs of the jackets. Full breeches, gathered at the knees with bits of ribbon, over stocking legs, led to high-heeled shoes with large tongues and square toes. For the woman of court, no less finery was expected. Their uncovered hair was parted in the middle with ringlets of curls falling over each ear. Lace trimmed petticoats peeked out from bell-like skirts. Stiffly unmoving bodices, enforced with bone, pressed the chest flat, showing wondrous amounts of cleavage through low scooped necklines. Bodices and sleeves were decorated with stiff bows, lace, gauze and jewels. Their colors were more varied then the men and just as bright, and from their ears and necks hung great jewels and bands of pearls. The men led the women about on their arms, some sporting two or three ladies, as their entourage made their way through the garden. The small groups stopped to nod and speak and laugh to other nobles as they passed. Young lovers, hands clasped, sat by the fountains drinking in the beauty of the other whilst trying to get the courage to declare their love. Birds sang beautiful summer songs. Ladies chattered of progress, and men spoke of politics and riches gained. Everyone smiled happily as if they were at peace with their world, though they all knew of the petty intrigues they plotted behind backs. Beneath the surface of each subtle flutter of an eyelash or wave of a fan lurked a devious mind of court. Hathor opened her eyes after a flash of bright light and the sound of roaring water in her ears. She froze, gasping as she looked around the sunlit yard. No one seemed to notice her panting and pale face as she stood next to a tall statue of a naked Venus. Slowly, she turned her head to the side. The illusion spread all around her. She could smell the sweet scent of the air. She felt the fine breeze and warm sun caressing her skin. Her eyes darted around, looking for Servaes in the crowd of nobles. She didn’t see him. She gulped nervously, noticing that her legs were unusually heavy, and it was hard for her to breathe.


Looking down, she saw that her breasts were outlined by a risqué neckline with white fur trim. She was dressed as everyone else. The stiff bodice of royal blue satin forced her back straight and made bending difficult. The sleeves were loose, puffed and gathered as they made their way down her arms, finally resulting in lace cuffs falling over her wrists. The top of the bodice arched around her hips and pointed down in the middle front towards her inner thighs. From there the cumbersome weight of the heavy blue skirts pulled her awkwardly to the earth, flaring out so that she couldn’t see her toes. She swayed on her feet. The gown parted with more fur trim to reveal a white underskirt with blue embroidered decoration. She had no choice but to place her hands demurely in front of her waist to keep her precarious balance. She felt surreal. The sun on her shoulders was warm and inviting, the sweetened perfumes of flowers on the gentle breeze no less so. The grass beneath her shoes crushed softly in whispers as she moved. Her senses told her the dream was real. Her mind told her it was impossible. She was hard pressed to believe her senses. Reaching over, she moved her hand to the stone pedestal of the statue. She expected it disappear into a fine mist. It didn’t. With a slow, drawn breath, she fell against its steady ledge. Closing her eyes, feeling as if she were about to swoon, she whispered, "Servaes, where are you? Do not leave me in this strange place alone." "Mademoiselle?" Hathor froze at the oddly familiar voice. Its tone was confused and light, unlike the dark and ominous Servaes she knew. Slowly, she leaned forward to peer around to the other side of the statue. She met instantly with a familiar face. It was Servaes, but not as she knew him. His dark brown eyes were bright and warm, curious as to who whispered his name with such seriousness. There was no suspicion in his gaze and no hard glare, only mild discontent. His lips curled into a carelessly beautiful smile as he saw her. His skin was dark, not the cold pale of the vampire he would become. His nose was the same, arrogant and proud. His jaw tilted with the same familiar line she found irresistible. As his eyes traveled in appreciation over her form, she felt a shiver rack her spine making her immobile. Her throat became dry. She could feel a flush rising to her features as she stared at him like a fool. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words were forthcoming. Her eyes studied his face, awestruck by his handsome visage. Slowly, the human Servaes stepped from hiding to better look at her confused face. His hair was bare, not at all covered like the other men. It was gathered back at the sides but fell free at the nape of his neck. The sun shone through the length of his dark locks making it gleam with an almost angelic quality. His long coat was of a fine black trimmed in the elaborate gold everyone seemed to like so much. Beneath it she could see a dark red waistcoat. A stark white cravat fitted to his neck and matching white stockings hugged his calves, trailing beneath the satin of his short breeches. On his feet were heeled shoes, black with red ribbon trim. Lowering her face to look at the ground, Hathor tried to suppress a chuckle and failed. He was very fancily done up. "Pardon, mademoiselle?" Servaes questioned in French. His eyebrows arched boldly on his face. Glancing up, she managed a smile for his confusion. Her eyes drew up to his beautiful dark hair. It looked so different in the sunlight, not like the stark black it was in the night. Servaes followed her gaze up towards the clear sky. Then, with an amused smile, he nodded, seeming to understand. Turning from her, he leaned over and lifted his hat from behind him. It was of black felt with red and white feather


plumes falling over the side to the back. Hathor cleared her throat, realizing that he was waiting for her to speak. Slowly, she said, "Much better, monsieur." To her amazement she realized she spoke in fluent French, but her thoughts were in English. The man smiled appreciatively. Leaning against the statue, he motioned his fingers lazily to her. "I must apologize for I do not remember meeting you, which is naturally not very well done of me since your beauty far outweighs even that of the pearls about your neck. Tell me where we were introduced so that I may remember such a happy day." Servaes smiled, leisurely studying her face. Hathor’s heart fluttered. Hathor bit her lips nervously and looked around for the vampire Servaes. The vampire was not so charming as the man before her was. Touching the pearls, she tried not to blush at his compliments. Weakly, she said, "Perchance it was in another life that we met, monsieur, for I do not believe we have been properly introduced." Where did that bit of banter come from? Hathor thought in amazement. She gave him an easy smile. "Did you not say Servaes, thus calling out to me?" Servaes questioned. "Did you not wish for me to rescue you from this strange place?" "Oh," Hathor hesitated, searching her brain for an answer. Delicately, she asked, "Are you the only man with the name of Servaes?" "No, of course not." Servaes took her sharp words as a dismissal and bowed at the waist. "I will keep you no longer. Please, forgive my rudeness." His eyes cast over with a blank front. Servaes turned abruptly away from her. "Wait," Hathor demanded, only to quickly add, "please." Servaes circled slowly to her with a questioning smile. Patiently, he waited for her to speak. The sparkling depths of his brown gaze continued to throw her off-guard. She swallowed nervously. "I’m sorry if I sounded rude. In truth I am just a bit frightened. You see, I was brought here and abandoned by my … chaperon. And I am not quite sure where to go or what to do." Hathor gave a great sigh and helplessly looked at the man before her. She tried to smile but failed. Her heart fluttered at his handsome face, his easy smile and charm. She was afraid to let him leave her since he was the closest thing to a friend she would have in the strange place. "In fact, at this moment, I don’t think I even know who I am." "I should be happy to help you remember yourself, chéri," Servaes answered gallantly, mystified by the woman. He grinned at her, a delighted smile as he held out his arm. Hathor stepped forward, amazed that her legs could move under the stiff skirts. She wrapped her fingers around his elbow, trying to walk in her obvious heels as he led her forward onto a walkway. "Tell me, is this place real, or am I still dreaming?" she asked. She knew that if anyone could answer her question, it would be Servaes. His deep brown gaze turned to her merrily as he gave a carefree laugh.


"I do not know, mademoiselle. If it is a dream let us both stay asleep." He led her over the grass, stopping to allow her to step gingerly over the ridge of stone surrounding the yard. Her heels clicked lightly as he helped her to move onto the paved pathway. "Thank you," she murmured politely. "So, mademoiselle is new to the French court?" he asked. He escorted her over the walkway past a manicured shrub and then proceeded to lead her about in apparent aimless direction. Hathor noticed that several of the other couples were strolling about in the same absentminded fashion. "Oui," she answered. "Very new. In fact, just arrived." "Ah, so have I finally met a lady untainted by the affairs of the social world?" questioned Servaes. He chuckled when she nodded her head in answer to the rhetorical question. Her innocent smile astounded him, drawing him into her world. Her blue eyes shone without cunning or artful display. She didn’t carry herself as a noble, yet she was not unkempt like a peasant. Her gaze met and held his boldly, not straying coyly beneath lashes in feminine invitation. "Well, let me introduce myself. I am Lord Servaes, Marquis de Normant." "And I," Hathor said, thinking quickly, "am Mademoiselle Hathor Vinceti." "Ah, from the Italian Vinceti's?" he inquired. "Very distant," she answered, thinking that surely her ancestors might have been them of whom he spoke. "I’m afraid they might not even know of my existence." "Well, their misfortune shall be my…." He let his words trail off with a soft hum. "How about this? If anyone asks, just tell them that we were introduced in Paris three years past through a mutual acquaintance, say the Countess Dulac. No one will think to question it." "I am afraid I do not know the Countess. What if I am asked about her?" "There is no Countess, so make up what you will. No one here would dare admit they do not know of her, being as she is a noblewoman and such a good friend of ours." Servaes stopped, motioning his hand a flowering plant. She followed his motion quizzically. "Just pretend to nod over the prettiness of the bloom. The trick to the court life is to say nothing, pretend to hear nothing, and in truth, say only the right things and hear everything. Be suspicious of everyone and beware of your fast friendships, especially with other noblewomen- -" "But, what of you Marquis?" she asked shyly. In truth she hoped she wasn’t trapped in this peculiar world for too long. Again her eyes scanned the distance for a solitary figure in the shadows, watching her. She could see no vampire. Where had the vampire Servaes gotten off to? Could he not come out in the sunlight, even if it was in his mind? How in the world did she get out of his head? And what exactly was he doing to her body back home in her aunt’s house? Hathor shivered as her attention was drawn to the potent nearness of the man on her arm. Comparing him to his future self, he was nothing like what he would become. Weakly, she finished, "Should I trust you?"


"No, perchance you should not." His eyes moved curiously over her face before he turned away from her. Leading her to a fountain, he whispered impishly, "Let’s have a bit of fun, eh?" Without giving her time to answer, he pulled her forward around the fountain and then stopped. He began to walk at a more leisurely pace. Loudly, he said, "Oui, mademoiselle, what a keen eye for detail you have. This piece was definitely constructed in the classical style so familiar to that period, and so very unlike the other statues in the garden." Hathor looked up at the statue in surprise. Then, hearing someone clear his throat, she turned her eyes to an elderly man strolling alone. The man was dressed in dark emerald, and his dark brown periwig contrasted the wrinkles in his old face. The man eyed her inquisitively, a lecherous light coming to his blatant gaze as he saw her cleavage. Turning to Servaes, he paused in greeting. Tapping his walking stick lightly on the ground, he said, "Ah, Lord Normant, I thought I heard you had arrived in Versailles." "Monsieur Nottingham," Servaes bowed. "Have you had the honor of meeting our newest flower of the court, Mademoiselle Hathor Vinceti?" Using the introduction as an excuse to once again examine her chest, the man said, "No, I don’t believe I have." "Mademoiselle," Servaes began turning to her most properly. "May I present, Monsieur Nottingham." Hathor eyed the older gentleman’s blackened teeth in disgust. They were stained with yellow tobacco. He took her hand and, fawning presumably over it, murmured, "Pleasure, mademoiselle." "Mademoiselle Vinceti has a great knowledge of fine sculptures, being as her family is originally from Italy," Servaes added. He frowned slightly, seeing that the man’s interest in his companion’s chest didn’t waver. Not that he could blame the man. The woman on his arm was absolutely stunning in her forthright manner. "Is that so," Nottingham proclaimed. "Is that where you met Lord Normant? At the Italian court?" "No, monsieur," Hathor managed, glancing nervously at Servaes. His arm tightened slightly on her hand in encouragement. She felt the muscles flex, giving her strength. "We met, was it already three years ago, in Paris? I was staying with the Countess Dulac. She is my aunt. Do you know her?" "Oui," Nottingham claimed easily, "fine woman the Countess. Is she here with you?" Hathor shook her head in denial. "No. I am afraid my aunt is indisposed at the moment. She is still in Paris." "Pity, I should have liked to pay my respects." Nottingham nodded politely in reluctant dismissal. "It was my pleasure, mademoiselle, and I should hope to see more of you later." Then, bowing towards Servaes, he quipped, "My lord." After the man left them, Hathor couldn’t help her joyous laughter. "Are all men such as him? If so, please get me out of here."


"I told you that our ruse would work." Servaes smiled, captivated. "Nottingham is one of the biggest court gossips. Soon everyone will know we are old friends and will not question the propriety of my escorting you about." "Why do you do this?" Hathor asked suddenly. "Why do you risk lying for a stranger who would most likely blunder her way around causing embarrassment to all?" "I like you," he stated boldly. "You make me laugh. And I absolutely abhor court life. But if I must be here, I would like it if the most beautiful woman were on my arm. I promise not to abandon you like this other Servaes." Hathor couldn’t stop a blush from fanning her cheeks at his bold attention. She felt as if she had known him for a long time. In a way she had. "I like you, too," she admitted shyly. When his eyebrows shot up in surprise at the easy admission, she asked, "Was I not suppose to say that?" "Ah," he began in awe. "Most women wouldn’t. They believe it takes away a bit of their mystery to speak frankly." "I think you will find, monsieur, that I am not like most women of your time." She flashed him an easy smile. "May I speak in candor?" "Oui, please," he motioned, completely taken in by her. He waited breathlessly for what she would say next. "I think that I was meant to find you today. So let us not go through the needless formality of proper small talk. I do not know how much time that I have in this place and wouldn’t waste it with unnecessary, antiquated propriety. Well, maybe I would with others here, but not with you. What say you, Marquis de Normant? Shall we become fast friend and throw caution to the wind?" "Caution to the wind?" he repeated with a small laugh. Amazed, he nodded his head, "Oui, let us do just that." As he studied her, he felt as if he knew her. He could see the innocence in her eyes, knowing she wouldn’t propose such a thing to just anyone. Whenever he introduced her about, he saw that she did in fact draw closer to his arm and looked out shyly to whoever spoke. He felt the nervous tips of her fingers digging unawares into his sleeves, uncomfortable with the over zealous attention of the males of the French court. Sensing her discomfort, he led her to a private alcove with a stone bench where she could sit in the shade. Her eyes shone brightly. Her attention was all on him as he spoke, soaking up every word. "And what of your family, monsieur?" she would ask. He would tell her of his father’s death by highwaymen and his mother’s penchant for drinking before she died. He would tell her of other things, things he never admitted to anyone. Hathor smiled, listening to his soft, youthful voice, its pleasant charm flowing over her, embracing her heart with his gentle eyes and kind ways. Once, his hand brushed tentatively against hers, and she boldly took it in her own. His hesitancy turned to a smile, rich and beautiful. His warm palm clasped about hers, their bodies drawing intimately closer as they spoke.


"I cannot believe what has happened today," he whispered into her ear. His lips parted, desperately wanting to kiss her. "I came here dreading my day and have ended up having the best time of my life." "I hope I am not giving you the wrong impression," Hathor murmured with a pretty blush. She saw his sexual interest held at bay in his eyes. "I do not want my forwardness misinterpreted as … fastness." Whispering into her small ear, he warned, "You had better be careful, my sweet, lest I ask you to be my wife and steal you away to the dismal countryside. I might just forever deprive you of this horrible court and the attention off all other men." "No, Servaes," she whispered back sadly, her eyes turning down with a hint of tears. Servaes smiled quizzically at her constant use of his given name. Such a thing was never done. She didn’t seem to notice. He liked it. "Promise not to speak of such things. They are not possible. As I have said, I will not be here long." "Are you in trouble, ma petite? I would help you if you were." The youthful, idealistic Servaes felt himself falling hopelessly in love. He could feel her inside himself like his own beating heart. She captivated him with her unearthly beauty, her sophistication so unlike the other ladies who tried endlessly to trap him into marriage. He knew he had to be careful, that there were many after his money. But, after speaking for hours, it became apparent that she had no idea of his vast fortunes or his numerous houses and castles. Beyond that, she didn’t think of his title and power, easily dismissing it to discover more of the man he was. "And you, mademoiselle? What of your parents?" he asked. Suddenly, her eyes turned sad, and he was sorry for it. "They were killed two years past 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. He noticed how she avoided answering. He wondered if her aunt was 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, avoiding nobility when he could, 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 could see the curiosity in his boldly piercing 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 that 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 round 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 been well spread and 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 desert there were small cake-like pastries, jams, tarts and sweetmeat 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. But a large vase blocked her view of him, and his face never really came to mind. Occasionally someone would direct a question towards 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, having been 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 amidst the falling of thrown rose petals. 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 abed with an illness. That is the king’s mistress, Madame de Maintenon."


"Mistress?" Hathor squeaked. "You mean he just walks about 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 face, he knew that 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. Her almond shaped eyes batted 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 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 the woman in disdain, barely noting her except to direct her with a curt nod. Turning her smile back to the Marquis, she murmured huskily, "Monsieur, please, if I might have a word with you?" Servaes saw the pleading in the dark woman’s eyes, knowing her to be infamous for making an undesirable scene 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 began to search 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 that she had been trying to suppress all night began to surface. If Servaes 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 could see 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. His face turned to her. Even over the distance she could see that it 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. As she reached her feet, the world around her seemed to slow. The distinct timing of nearby laughter stretched over the course of several seconds, the reply to it was garbled like the slow speed of a recording. Only she and


Jirí were not affected by normal time, as she watched the 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 she had felt with Servaes, as he had pulled them quickly 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 that he wasn’t by his pale skin, and his eyes that glowed though 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 the deliberately exaggerated movement and speech. Hathor started to follow him, passing by the nobles undetected as she made her way. She neared Nottingham laughing 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 her 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. His soulful brown eyes turned around. Hathor’s heartbeat quickened as she saw his handsome face. His earnest expression drew slowly over the crowd as he blinked and turned towards 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. He turned back as if trying to see her at the fountain. The crowd was too thick. Time became normal once more. Suddenly, fireworks began exploding overhead in mighty pops. The noble court clapped and gasped with awe. The laughter was loud as it rang about 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 was smiling delightedly with an unknown aim. Servaes 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 turned to 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 to the sky. 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 was moving straight for her. Hathor cringed, recoiling in fear. And then, without warning, everything was gone.

Chapter Eleven

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 ever a need 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 half way 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 down 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 secret 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 placed oddly by the bed. He would have sworn it was not there before. Stepping forward, entranced, he looked up 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 stormy 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 that if his 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, shaking his head pleadingly. Madame de Maintenon glared violently at him, her red silk robe clutched to her chest, her eyes round with fright. "Madame de Maintenon," Servaes tried to soothe. He held up his hands to plead 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’ve 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 you head for this insult to me." "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 his head 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 claims the king sent him to attend me." "No," Servaes tried to deny. He turned to the guards. "That is not it." "Is monsieur saying that 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 him. 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 to 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 am 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. "Madame?" he questioned, curious. Madame de Maintenon swung around at the flustered sound of his low voice. Motioning her hand, she began to speak, only to gape in open-mouthed wonder. She gasped in confusion. The statue was gone. "It is nothing," she managed weakly. She snapped her mouth shut, turning to glare at the hapless man in disdain. With a wave befitting a queen, she huffed, "Just go!" "Oui, Madame" he said, bowing as he closed the doors. He gingerly followed after the curses of their prisoner.

**** Hathor tried desperately to fight the stone of her limbs. She couldn’t move, held still by the stiffness of her body. She felt cold. Her eyes wouldn’t blink. Terrified, she watched Servaes being hauled from the chamber. Her limbs ached to reach out to him, to hold him. His face stayed brave as he spouted his words of innocence. The guards wouldn’t listen. Finally, one of his captors struck him on the back of the head. He fell limp. Then her world again began to rock and pitch slowly as if on an ocean. Suddenly, her sight dimmed. The light of the candles swirled and faded in jagged trails of light. Hathor felt her stomach lurch in sickness. She was like a marble statue, weighed down by the heavy stone of her body, helpless against the rocking motion of her frozen form. A roar grew in her ears followed by a splash. Her stone bonds were released, and in a dangerous throw she was pitched backwards into a wooden wall. Her body slammed with a heavy thud before falling onto an unsteady ground. She stiffened. Her body tipped and turned on top of the creaking of wood. She waited for the rocking to stop. It only grew more insistent -- unrelentingly haphazard. Her nose pressed into a coarse floor, constructed of unfinished wood. Her hand drew back as she felt a splinter pierce her palm with the irritating poke of a sewing needle. She let loose a long breath, unable to see enough to dig the offending protrusion from her skin.


Fearfully, Hathor raised her hands and again carefully fitted them to the floor. She began to push herself up. Her eyes looked around in the darkness, trying to see and unable to. Slowly, she rose and clutched at her knees. Tears entered her frightened eyes. Her heart pounded. It was the only sound beyond the creaking wood. Gradually, she managed to push herself to kneeling. Feeling along the rough wood planks of the floor with shaking fingers, she realized she was on a ship. And from the feel of the dampened wood beneath her palms, she guessed she was on the bottom of it. She was scared of all that surrounded her, scared to be left alone in the black prison. "Agh!" Hathor trembled, recognizing the tortured voice. The darkness was consuming. She felt around her, listening past the creaks and groans of the wooden floor. She tried to inch her way towards the sound of Servaes’ agony. Her fingers searched desperately for him in the blackness. Then, with a sudden burst, a blinding light streamed in above her head. She scurried back into the shadows. The sound of the sea swept in with the cool air from the opened hatch. Seeing she was by a rough-hewn ladder leading up from the darkness, she crawled to hide herself from the view of it. There was nowhere to go, she pressed herself into the curved side of the ship, hoping whoever intruded upon them wouldn’t see her. Crouching in the shadows, she held her breath as thick leather boots stepped before her face. Her eyes darted for a weapon. There was nothing she could easily grab. The dirty brown of a long waistcoat soon followed the boots. Watching fearfully, she pulled herself into a small ball. The man’s flesh smelled of salt and fish, the splashing of waves over the side of the deck his only bath for months. Hathor prayed the man wouldn’t see her. The light fell on his bearded face, crusted and wrinkled from years on the ocean. A yellowed cravat hung untied about his neck. To her relief, his squinted eyes didn’t find her as they adjusted and blinked. He reached above him, pulling a lantern down to his side. The man turned his back, calling out in a language she didn’t understand. His feet walked easily over the pitching boards, not tipping as the ship lurched to one side and then another. He held his lantern high, revealing the top of his balding head, over the longer lengths of hair at the sides and back. It hung around his shoulders in stringy waves. In his hand he carried a sack. Hathor, knowing the man would surely leave the same way he came, looked for a better place to conceal herself. Seeing a barrel, she crawled uneasily on her hands and knees to duck behind it. She felt the splinter press uncomfortably into her skin. She ignored the irritation the best she could. Her feet were unsteady as she moved. Feeling a tickling at her wrists, she glanced down, noticing that she wore the clothing of a man. A linen shirt covered her arms, lace falling over her fingers. A long waistcoat fell to her knees, the buttons brown and plain. Over her legs she felt the heavy knee-high boots of a sailor. Hathor had no time to dwell on the oddity of her situation. The crusty sailor again called out, as she watched him from behind the barrel. His light cast away from her to the other side of the ship. Unexpectedly, she saw bare feet lying on the tipping floor. The sailor kicked the legs, screaming down angrily at the man whom he sought. The man moaned and didn’t answer. The sailor cursed, looking around the belly of the ship as if to see if anyone watched. Hathor saw him shiver. He hung his lantern on a wayward nail. Then, opening the sack he carried, he reached inside.


Hathor narrowed her eyes, leaning forward. Her heart leapt into her throat. She waited as the intruder dug about in the sack, wondering what it was he was going to do to the hapless man on the floor. Her fingers searched blindly for a weapon she could swing at the sailor’s back. With a grunt, the grimy man gave a lecherous smile. His hand withdrew from the sack. But, instead of the weapon she feared, he drew out a gnarled piece of meat and stuck it in his mouth. Then, tossing the sack on the floor by the man, he let loose an evil laugh. Hathor sighed in relief. Leaning back, her eyes widened. A red beady gaze stared at her from the lines of a furry face. Catching sight of a rat, she gulped noisily and jumped back on her hands. With a crash, her body slipped, and she was tumbled unceremoniously to the floor. The sailor turned around in alarm at the noise. His eyes narrowed in worry as his hand searched his waist for a dagger without finding it. Seeing the presumed lad on the floor, he began spouting his foreign words at him. His arms gestured wide and he took a menacing step forward. His fist shook with his shouted meaning. Hathor watched him in fear, not knowing what to do. The man reached to his waist, pulling a knife from behind his back. He waved and pointed the blade at her, growing more agitated when she didn’t respond. Then, like a call from the heavens, a shout sounded above. The man froze, cocking his head to listen. He shot her another curse before sheathing his weapon once more. Going to the ladder, he kept Hathor in the corner of his eye until he reached the top. The hatch slammed shut behind him, and she could hear the distinct sound of a lock sliding into place. Hathor sighed in relief, panting for breath as her heart began to slow. The man had left the lantern on the peg so she could still see her surroundings. Going forward on her hands and knees, she crawled through the belly of the ship to the man on the floor. She knew who it was even before seeing the tired lines on his weary face. Lightly, she reached out and touched his foot. Her hands shook as she felt the tender warmth of his skin. He moaned slightly, his foot twitching as if to shoo a rat. Hathor drew back her hand. She turned her face to the hatch above her as she detected the sound of footfall on the deck. After a moment, when no one came down, she continued to crawl forward. Reaching up, she grabbed the lantern from the wall. Coming up next to Servaes’ pale face, tears stung her uneasy gaze. He had been beaten badly. A bloody welt fastened over his eyes, closing them with puffiness, and dark bruises marred his handsome skin. His lips were swollen beyond recognition. Feeling a rock and a pitch of her body, she braced herself against the wall of the ship. Before her eyes, the welt melted from his face to be replaced by a bump, the bruises faded from purple to a sickish yellow-green before disappearing completely. She vaguely heard a curse behind her. The boat pitched, her body blurred and flew as if days passed by in seconds. She watched as a beard grew over Servaes’ sinking features. She saw as his face paled and lost the color of sunlight. Lights dimmed and grew. Impressions of people came and went like eerie streaks of light and dark. Some fled from her face in horror, yet others marked their chests with the sign of a cross and laid food at Servaes feet like an offering. Then again her body slanted. Looking down, she saw Servaes’ eyes were opened. His cracked lips


parted as if to speak. Tilting down to him, she heard his beautiful voice whisper, "Don’t go, stay with me my angel. Light the darkness for me again." Hathor smiled at him, raising her hand to his whiskered face. She put the lantern on the floor beside him. His skin was pale, his eyes dull and weak. His flesh was warm as his stubbled cheek sought the comfort of her caressing hand. All around them the stale air mixed with the saltiness of the sea. The ship calmed and rocked gently at their bodies in a soothing rhythm. Whatever storm they had gone through was passing. "Am I dead?" he whispered, emboldened by her touch to speak. His eyes fell heavily but didn’t close. They stayed trained on her, desperate to keep her before him. Hathor couldn’t form a ready answer. Tears brimmed over her eyes. Her lips trembled, filling with the uneven surge of love and pain that warred in her breast. Everything about her felt real. His face felt real. Swallowing, she whispered in French, "Maybe we are both dead, Monsieur Marquis." Slowly, a smile curled his chapped lips. His hand rose from his side to touch her face. His fingers trembled weakly and fell to his chest with a sigh. Hathor took his hand in hers. It too was pale and thin. She touched the roughly callused palms, the dirty broken nails. He was so changed from the charming gentleman that led her about on his arm at the king’s party. "I have dreamt of you. I thought you were a ghost of my insanity. And now you are here, holding me. The sailors think you are a spirit. They keep me alive only out of fear of you. Do not leave me, ghost angel," Servaes whispered in a plea. "I cannot survive this if you are not with me." "I will try," she answered softly. She began to cry, wanting to draw him from the obvious pain he felt. His cheeks were skeletal from starvation, his flesh casting to an unhealthy gray. Still, he was beautiful to her. His eyes made her heart leap and race. Pursing her lips, she asked, "How long have you been here, Servaes?" At that he began to chuckle, a wild chuckle of a man believing himself to be deranged. As though every thought he had of her must be spoken in an instant lest she disappear again, he said a raspy voice, "Now I know you are a dream. A noblewoman would never utter my name as you just have. Not with that look of pleasure on your face as you stare into my pitiful and broken eyes. No one would wish to be trapped in this hell with me. So I know you are not real." "I am real," she broke in. Her words only produced another smile to his lips. His eyes glimmered with a tired sparkle. "I knew from that first moment I saw you," he whispered. "You were by the statue at the king’s palace. I knew that you were more than those other women of court were. I wanted you then. I wanted it to be me you meant when you whispered my name with such searching, such longing. I wanted to stay with you forever." "I was looking for you," she broke in with a murmur. She could tell he didn’t believe her to be real. How could she blame him? To him months passed by in the gut of a ship as they sailed endlessly over the expanse of water, heading towards an unknown destination. "Said just as I would have it, my angel of dreams," Servaes smiled. He was content to take her however he could. He had no money and no proof of his title. Only the darkness could comfort him. The darkness and his dream of the woman above him, her face fresh and clean, and her hair pulled back as if she were


a lad snuck onto a ship to rescue him. "You disappeared. I sent word to you before being shipped away. I did not want you to think I abandoned you." "I knew you didn’t," she interjected, pushing back his hair. Her hand moved down the sides of his face over his whiskered jaw. As her caress met with his neck, she paused. Beneath her fingers she felt the hot stickiness of drying blood. Gently as she could, she took his jaw and pushed his face to the side. He tried to resist, but was too weak to fight her. Hidden beneath whiskers were two very distinct punctures. Hathor froze, knowing exactly what they were. They were the bite marks of a vampire. Jirí! "Do not look at that, chéri," Servaes murmured in a desperate plea. "It is from my other ghost. He is my tormentor, my dark shadow, always speaking of death and rebirth. He comes to feed me, to keep me alive, and then he drains me of my energy. With him I slowly die. But, with you … you are my redeemer! With you I am happy and can think of naught but your beauty. I know you are not real…." Hathor could see him fading. His eyes drooped wearily, his lids falling leadenly to hide the mournful depths of his brown gaze. She lifted his head up and moved it over her lap. The stark darkness of his hair fell against the peachy color of her hand. Brushing the dirty locks from his face, she leaned over to place a tender kiss on his forehead. A light moan of pleasure came from his throat. The gentle caress revived him, and he looked up into her face. "Where did you go, petite? My man looked all over Versailles for you. He said you disappeared completely." "I had to leave very suddenly," she whispered, thinking of Madame de Maintenon’s bedchamber. She had been there only a half-hour before. "What happened to you that night? Why are you here?" "I’ve asked myself the same thing. I do not know. Madame La Fontaine gave me a missive saying I was to meet the king. Instead I was delivered into the chamber of his favorite mistress. From there I was arrested. The king in his jealousy banished me from French soil. He cast me out as a prisoner onto this Dutch ship." Servaes sighed, unable to continue for he didn’t have the answers. Servaes began to fade from consciousness again. Hathor moved to lie beside him. She lifted his head onto her arm and nestled her body next to his side, wrapping her arm about his slender waist. She pulled him to her, close, so that her body pressed firmly to his. With all his strength, he rolled on his side. He stared at her face, almost afraid to touch it. "I have thought of you just so. Only we’re in my favorite chateau outside Paris or in one of my many houses," Servaes paused with a sheepish smile. The light returned to his eyes to stare merrily at her. "I thought of you as my wife. I imagined every detail of the long life we would live. Those images have kept me sane -- or perhaps they have not. Perhaps I am insane, and that is why you visit me. If it is so, I pray that sanity never claims me." Hathor gasped at his meaningful look. Servaes leaned forward to press his lips to hers. His kiss was gentle and warm, his cracked lips unable to move as much as he urged them. Hathor used all her strength to pull him to her mouth. Her lips parted desperately wanting him, scared of what was happening. She tried not to breathe, ignoring his breath as it wafted into her face. She didn’t care that his body was unwashed. He was a prisoner and couldn’t help it. Besides, none of it mattered. All that mattered was him. The world no longer made sense. She knew what he was to become -- one of the undead preying upon


humans for centuries of a lonely life. She knew how much that existence would pain the man next to her -- the human man with a softly spoken respect for all things. She knew that his kiss couldn’t be real. Her heart broke, desperately wanting the life that he laid out. Within his kiss she could imagine their children, happy and playful, with their father’s ornery charm and easy ways. She saw her husband, astride a horse in the country, riding hard over fields to come to her. She felt him make love to her on the grass, in the hay of the stables. She saw him come to her in the night, in the middle of the day. She saw his understanding look when their daughter became a bride and as he held her gently while tears fell from her aging eyes. She could see their grandchildren, growing up in a time where new inventions were coming about in a new world full of promise and dreams. She could see it all, feel it as real as if they lived inside the dream. Servaes weakly drew away. His eyes were soft as he gazed at her. "I know it sounds foolishly absurd. But I fell in love with you that first moment. I never expected love to come so swiftly. Would you have said yes to me, chéri, had I asked you to be my wife that night by the fountain? I was going to. Would you have regretted such a life with me?" As Hathor looked at him, she saw that he imagined it, too. The countryside life was his gift to her, the only thing he could give her as they traveled through the waters of hell. Her heart thud dully within her, agonized with a longing of what could never be. Tears overwhelmed her eyes. Nodding her head, she knew it to be the truth. If she was a noblewoman of his time and they had met as they did, she would have married him. "Oui, my love. I would marry you if you were to ask me now, Servaes, in this boat with no hope in it, and I wouldn’t have regretted the pretty life you just gave me. My only regret is that it can never be such as that." Servaes nodded. He was content in her words. "Thank you, chéri. Thank you for staying with me. Without you I would have died. Mayhap someday I will find you again, if I live through this. Mayhap I can redeem you as you have me." "Oui, Servaes. You will find me again," whispered Hathor, heartbroken and lost. But you will not be the same. You will be something else -- something that keeps you from me even more than the curse of this dream. "Stay with me, chéri," he pleaded, his shallow breath falling against her temple. "Stay with me as I sleep." "I will try." She sniffed from the heartache of her tears, trying to be strong for the man she loved. Her hands stroked lovingly over his body. Her fingers twined in the silken locks of his dirty hair. Pulling him closer, she willed the world not to jerk and spin. Her body was tired from her day of traveling -- the strolling and laughing in the king’s garden, the brief night under the stars that was too shortly lived, and then the bedchamber of a king’s mistress. Until finally now, traveling through the long hour on a ship that stretched over time and distance. She forced her eyes to stay open, watching the fall of his chest as he slept. The boat rocked them in its lullaby, drifting further out to sea. Hathor knew she loved him, would gladly stay in this torturous moment forever with him, if time would only let her.


**** Hathor’s eyes flew open with a jolt. She was still in the ship. Sighing with a morose sense of relief, she turned over to look at Servaes’ sleeping face. He was so handsome, even sick and pale as he was. She touched him delicately in the dimming light of the lantern. Her hand glided lovingly over his whiskered jaw. His flesh smelled of sweat and musk. She didn’t care. His lips parted, drawing breath. She smiled, despite everything around them. She didn’t know how long she slept with him, only that her body was stiff from the boards. Resting her hand against his heart, she felt it beating in soft soothing thumps. His lips parted, murmuring almost contentedly. His hand weakly moved over hers in a soft caress. Hathor’s eyes drifted closed, content to sleep. But, before she could once more find her rest, the boat lurched and banged to a halt. Above her she heard the stomping of feet and then shouts as those on board ran to the side. Nervously, she sat up, protectively holding her arm to Servaes. "What?" Servaes mumbled, coming awake. His color looked better, but he was still weak from his wound. He tried to push himself up next to her. Again the boat crashed. He drew her to his chest, trying to protect her from whatever would come. Hathor let him hold her. The hatch was thrown opened. A burly man stuck his head beneath the deck. His eyes narrowed as he looked about in the dimness. Servaes shoved Hathor behind him, crouching to his feet to block her from view. She placed her hand on his back as she nervously hovered next to him. She felt his back tense, waiting. "There you are, laddie," the man spat in broken English. "Welcome to your new home." Servaes swallowed, he felt Hathor grip at his waist. Her nervous hand gave him small comfort. His eyes squinted. Roughly, he grunted, "Where?" "The New World, laddie! America!" the man shouted almost gleefully. A hard sailor’s chuckle escaped his lips. "Come out of there and see your new home." The man disappeared from the hatch. Servaes fell back to sit on his feet. He looked at Hathor in stunned horror. "They have shipped me off to the colonies without money or proof of title. I have no way of proving myself and going back home. The passage aboard a ship is too expensive, lest I am able to find work on one. But that is not possible. I know nothing of the sea. I am exiled. All I have is the memory of you before me. I will never make it back to you, Hathor. I’m sorry." Hathor saw his tortured fear. He was stuck in a strange land, feeling alone. She reminded herself that she was only a dream to him, perhaps as he was to her. None of this was real. But the longer she stayed in the dream, the more real it felt and the more she fell in love with the human Servaes. Her heart beat solemnly for him. How alone he must have felt! She reached up to touch his face. She could tell by the marks on his neck that his time of changing was soon. The purpling wounds hadn’t healed. "You will find me again, Servaes," she whispered. "This I do know." He leaned forward, wanting to believe her but not. His hand reached up to caress her face. She smiled at him sadly. Tears welled in her eyes. They brimmed over her lashes with moisture. He looked at her


warm pink skin, so clean and pure. He looked at her lips, parted in heavy breath, drawn tight with worry. Slowly the world began to pitch and swirl. Hathor cried out, knowing what was to come. She was again leaving him, moving forward in time as he was left behind. She was going to see the end of his story, and the end of the only man she could love. She damned the vampire for showing her this world, for tormenting her with what could never be. The images of their life together whirled in her head like memories -- distinct and unfettered. "I am afraid I will be leaving you soon," Hathor whispered. She glanced up at the opened hatch before looking him in the eyes. Stroking his cheek, she said, "Now, do not be frightened. Go meet with your destiny." Servaes drew a small comfort from her reassuring words. Her eyes looked so earnest and true. Leaning forward, he pressed his lips to hers to stifle what she would further say to him. Words didn’t matter. She moaned, feeling him against her mouth, his hands moving to touch her cheek. She opened her eyes. His were closed. By small degrees, she started to fade. Servaes lurched forward trying to stop her. She gave him a sad smile and disappeared completely. The last sound of his voice echoing like a whisper in her head, "Hathor…."

Chapter Twelve

American Colonies, 1682 AD

The crisp cold air of the morning floated over the wharves, swirling the fog in misty patterns to obscure the distance. The coast was lined with rocks and sand, as the docked ships floated just beyond the shores. Not far from the edge was the dense setting of trees, surrounding a small settlement of wooden houses and undistinguished storefronts. Below the deck of the newly arrived cargo ship, Servaes cursed bitterly. He could taste Hathor’s kiss on his lips as if it had been real. Swearing himself as insane, he stumbled to his feet. His legs wobbled unsteadily, as he crossed over to grab his boots. He slid on his yellowed stockings before pulling his boots over them. Reaching into the corner, behind an empty barrel, he pulled out his waistcoat and cravat. Slipping them over his head, he then did the same with his overcoat. The clothing was a gift from his manservant, smuggled to him while he awaited his punishment. His prison


had been a small room in the palace. He hadn’t been there long before the king had him drugged and carted aboard a seagoing vessel. Now he knew to where he was exiled. He was abandoned in America, and all for allegedly making unseemly advances towards the king’s mistress. In those first days, as he lay battered and bruised from the king’s guard, he tried to remember any slight that he might have made to cause such action against him. He could think of nothing. He had no known enemies. Servaes forced his weakened limbs to pull his body up the ladder. His fingers shook, gripping through their stiffness at the rungs, as he climbed out of his prison. The day that greeted him was dank and misty. The diffused light blinded his eyes, and he fell weakly to the deck, crawling from the hole onto the solid boards of the vessel. Around him was silence. The ship rocked gently, bumping into the dock with an even clunk, clunk. Servaes stood, stumbling his way to the side of the boat. His head whirled with nausea. He stared blankly over the edge of the cargo ship, and he fell to his knees. The dark ocean churned restlessly beneath his head. The salty air rose with mist to coat his face in a damp blessing. Servaes breathed deeply of the fresh air, closing his eyes to the briny waters. A bell rang in the distance, its sound as lonely as the morning seagull’s call. When no one came to rouse him from his place on the deck, he struggled to his feet. Frowning, he saw only a handful of men working on the ship. For all that they traveled above him, they looked as if they fared little better than he. Their drawn faces were pale, without the light of merriment that usually met them as they docked in a new port full of promise and the varied choice of women of loose-morale. Servaes hugged his overcoat around his arms, ignoring the stares the sailors gave him. Wretchedly, he stumbled down the ramp. He turned his eyes to the ground as he passed by them on the dock. None of them spoke to the man they carted across the world. A few of them turned away, afraid of the traveler. They believed he was the one who brought such death and sickness to the boat as to kill over half of the crew. All knew the whispers of the ghosts that traveled with him, believing them to be evil spirits. Servaes ignored them and didn’t turn back as he ventured into the small colonial town. The road was of dust, the buildings of planked, whitewashed wood. Occasionally a wagon carting goods would pass the hunched solitary figure wandering in the early morning. The drivers ignored him as they urged their horses faster. Servaes stopped, eyeing the distance. The road stretched out before him, curling down an unfamiliar path. Looking above the roofs of buildings, he saw only the tops of trees. The air was fresh, cleansed by sea, but even that didn’t comfort him. For with the freshness came a foreign smell he didn’t recognize as home. "Master Keys?!" Servaes turned dully at the sound. His feet shuffled in small movements, the effort almost not worth making. He tried to make out the English words in his head, not knowing what they could mean. His brain was numb, his stomach hungry, and his body so weary he felt as if he might drop to his death at any moment. If death came for him at the moment, he would welcome it. Servaes’ sunken, haggard eyes found a lone boy running up the street. The lad’s thin shoulders bounced as he jogged easily to the gaunt man. His pocked face eyed the gentleman’s tattered clothing doubtfully. "Be ye Master Keys?" the young boy asked.


"Be I what?" Servaes croaked. His English was heavily accented with the language of his birth. He narrowed his eyes at the young lad, noting the wind-tousled blonde hair curling about his ears. He was young, maybe in his early teens, but not likely. "Be ye Master Mark Keys?" the boy asked, stressing his words slowly as if the man were daft. "I am the Marquis de Norm --" Servaes began weakly. His chapped lips stung and bled with the words. "It’s what I said, isn’t it? Mark Keys," the boy huffed with a shake of his head. "Yer to come with me, Mark." When Servaes looked at him questioningly, he sighed, "Come on then, it’s too cold to be standin’ about waitin’ fer the sun to shine. I don’t get paid if yeh don’t come on." Servaes had to concentrate to understand the boy’s strange accent. It was a mix of England and the New World, he assumed. Only catching the gist of what the boy said, Servaes inquired, "Who gave you money?" "Yer mate, Mark. ‘E said yeh’d be a-wantin’ food and a place to lie down." As they passed several buildings, the boy pointed aimlessly at them, rattling off names that Servaes couldn’t understand. He couldn’t force his mind to translate that which was spoken so rapidly. The boy, who Servaes later learned was named Samuel, brought him to a building as rough as the rest. It only took him a moment to understand it was a small boarding house for the sailors. The Marquis didn’t care, as long as he was led to a warm cot and a fire. Samuel’s mother, a portly woman with beefy arms, welcomed him in with a bright smile and small bow. He somehow got the impression she knew of his station. The mother pushed her young daughter forward. Servaes wryly noted the hope in her eyes as she presented the plump girl for his inspection. Servaes shook his head, pretending not to understand the mother’s words, as she spouted the talents of her daughter -- talents that could be bought for a small price. The daughter smiled shyly, almost fainting with relief when the rough looking gentleman paid her no mind. The mother’s disappointment was obvious, but she let Samuel lead the Marquis away to his chamber. It was with a vague relief and heavy heart that Servaes shut his door to the world. He fell onto the cot, intent on not moving. His body spun from his months on the ocean, and his head throbbed with thoughts of Hathor. Closing his eyes, he blocked out the small chamber. He couldn’t help but wonder if any of it was true at all. If he could pick the reality he would have, he would pick Hathor and the life he imagined for them.

**** Servaes slept through the first day and through all of the night, hardly moving in his exhaustion. When he did wake, he felt somewhat refreshed. Grabbing a loaf of bread left on the only table in his room, he quickly ate it. He didn’t taste the food as he swallowed it down with a mug of warm ale. His clothes were still on, stinking and tattered from the journey. His skin crawled as if it were alive. When he stepped from the chamber he was met with the surprised eyes of the Baker family -- nine


children in all, tow-headed rascals the whole lot of them. Servaes’ gaze met with Samuel’s. He vaguely recognized the boy. Through stunted words and numerous gestures, Servaes managed to secure a bath. When he pointed to his clothes, the woman laughed, handing him a package. Inside was a new wardrobe, as stiff and pristine as he had ever worn. The mother also gave him a crude razor with a basin of water pointing to his face in indication that he should shave. No one could tell him who his benefactor was, although they did say he’d been by the night before with the clothing. It was a fact that made Servaes uneasy. When he told his hostess he had no money to pay her, again she laughed and shooed him to his room with the admission that everything had been taken care of in advance. Night fell over the American town, its name unknown to Servaes who never thought to ask and didn’t understand when told. It didn’t matter, for he was not home. Dressed in his new clothes, his face clean-shaven, Servaes made his way into the evening. He denied Samuel’s enthusiastic offer to accompany him. The boy frowned in disappointment but left the nobleman alone. Servaes made his way into the dark evening. The night was lit with crude lanterns up the main street. In the distance, he detected a piano and the loud singing of a drunken chorus. Servaes’ body begged him for a drink, but he didn’t have the energy to grace a common pub so held back. Above him the stars stretched for miles, uninhibited by tall buildings. They looked the same as home, giving him some sense of connection. Scratching his head, which he had left bare, he walked in the opposite direction of the pub towards the solitary sound of the ocean. The plea of the chilling waves called to him, begging him to jump into its inky depths with the promise that they would carry him home.

**** The docks were quiet. The moon shone full and proud over the water, as the ocean lapped up the sides of the giant ships. The subtle laughter of a sailor and his paid woman drifted up from under the deck as Hathor hurried by. Her heart beat frantically, Servaes’ kiss warm on her mouth. "Servaes! When is this going to end? Get me out of here!" she whispered fervently between her teeth. The night air didn’t respond. As a cool breeze whipped about her, she pulled the waistcoat closer to her form. Chills racked her tired and stiff body. Her eyes strained to the distance, trying to see her aunt’s house across the length of the endless ocean. The water only continued, blending with the stars until they met in the blinding distance with unearthly beauty. "Servaes, I can’t take this nightmare anymore! Get me out of here! I want to go home! Fine, I will sleep with you if that is what you want. I will be your slave. Just make this end. Make me forget it. I want to go home." She knew she must look like a madwoman, sputtering in anger to the wind. Her outrage was not answered. Then, a thought struck her. She wondered if she was to see the whole expanse of Servaes life -- from human to vampire to the night in the club where she first saw his cold eyes staring at her from the stage. The thought left her faint. She wanted to know everything about him, but she wasn’t sure she wanted the pain of living through it. Already her heart was broken with an unbearably aching emotion. She knew the man she loved was going to die and not from some disease or illness, but to be reborn as a night stalker, a vampire. His soul would be killed perhaps, but his handsome body would be left behind to haunt her with the knowledge of what she couldn’t have.


When the blurring and pitching of her body had stopped, she was at the end of the dock, still dressed as a commoner. Already two salty sea creatures with the appearance of men propositioned her. She stormed away from the drunken louts with heavy threats and a frightened heart. She had no proof that nothing bad could happen to her in this dream world. Every ache and twitch of her body felt very real. Before meeting the human Servaes, she felt herself falling for his vampire form. But now, after having felt the tenderness of what he once had been, the leftover of what he had become was heart wrenching. His human eyes were so full of life and humor. His smile was careless and radiant. Tripping on a loosened board, Hathor fell forward to the deck. Pain shot bitterly throughout her stiff body. Her wrist throbbed at the hard jolt. Unexpectedly, she began to cry. She couldn’t stop the tears, as she looked around from her place on the ground. Wiping her nose on her sleeve, she sniffed, wondering where it was she should go. Before, Servaes had been right there in front of her. Losing the will to go anywhere, she just lay on the deck waiting to see if anyone would come to her. But the docks were so big, the nearby town so foreign. Looking about only made her cry harder. And then, with a loud sniff, she saw him. She tried to stand, desperately wanting to call to him. But her body wouldn’t move. Her voice wouldn’t work. Servaes stepped closer, his face tired and stretched. His eyes were fixed on the ocean. A dark frown marred his brow as he stepped to the edge of the dock. Hathor could see what he contemplated. She knew that he thought of jumping into the dark abyss. His arms lifted from his side, and he leaned weakly forward. Her heart reached out to stop him. Her jaw opened. No sound escaped. She was stuck, frozen like a wayward piece of driftwood, unable to move until time decided she should. Then she saw Jirí, standing in the shadows, watching the unsuspecting man she loved. With a flash, Jirí was in front of Servaes, stopping him from ending his life. The vampire cocked his head and smiled. Servaes stiffened, backing away. The vampire’s smile widened as he stepped around the nervous young man in inspection. Laughing in giddy pleasure, Jirí came back around to Servaes’ front. "Ah, my very young Marquis de Normant! I have waited a long time for this gentle eve!" Jirí exclaimed in perfect French. His dark hazel eyes glowed eerily in the moonlight. Hathor again tried to scream. Her voice sputtered out in a pant that sounded like the howling of the wind. The men didn’t notice. "Do I know you, monsieur?" Servaes asked defensively. His shoulders straightened, his chin pointed 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. "And 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 smile.


"I will not be blackmailed by you. I thank you for your kindness and your clothes, which I will just as happily return to you. But 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 could feel it gripping in his arm. "It is exactly why I want you, my darling Servaes. Because you have nothing, but know everything that 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 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 can’t reverse time, but I can give you more than you ever dreamt possible. I need you. 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 beautiful. 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, Servaes! What adventures we will experience! What worlds we will taste! And we will rule all of them -- together." "You’re mad," Servaes whispered. The man ignored him. "Me thought 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 are mad," Servaes spat, disbelieving. He thought of Hathor, of her sweet face. His heart broke painfully. Here was his answer -- the deranged man in front of him, walking and moving with infinite grace. He was the whole reason he lost her. The loss of her 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 loving tenderness that had been there moments before. Baring his fangs, his eyes glinted red with blood, as 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 most torturous ghost! But the realization came too late. Jirí leapt 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 backwards 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 gasped and 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 his demon from his chest. But soon he was too weak to move. His hands fell limply at his sides. Hathor reached her hand out for him. Tears streamed wildly down her face. Her body trembled violently in fear. She still couldn’t scream. Within a matter of seconds, Jirí let go. Servaes fell to the ground. His body didn’t move, save for his eyes as they searched up into the stars. The old vampire jerked his head back, blood trailing down over his chin and neck. His red eyes rolled ecstatically in his head. His arms spread wide to caress the ocean’s breath. The vampire fell to his knees with a slow and steady pull forward, landing silently on the noisily creaking 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 lay on the ground before him. Jirí stroked his arm, forcing his blood out to drip over Servaes’ parted lips. The crimson liquid began trickling down the man’s throat. Servaes gasped weakly, wheezing with a choke. "Drink," Jirí whispered huskily. His soft murmurs 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 him up and fitted his mouth to his arm. Servaes’ eyes popped open, the pupils pulled completely red. He sucked the arm like an angry child, starved for food. Soon, his hands were able to grab at the vampire’s arm. Jirí’s laughter could be heard ringing all around them. It chilled the earth with its power. Hathor shut her eyes, refusing to see anymore. She felt as if it was her life ending on those wretched docks. Her heart slowed and bled 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 that the breaking of her heart could never be mended. Servaes was dead. All she could do was cry for him.


Chapter Thirteen

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 could hear Servaes’ screams of agony all around her, drowning out everything else on the dock. She could hear Jirí’s delighted chuckle as he watched the man die. But then 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 right 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 whole 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 lay on the hall floor. Servaes’ eyes were closed, his body unmoving. Laying her fingers on his chest, she felt a steady heartbeat beneath the cool flesh. Her hand slid from him to the floor, and she weakly ambled to her unsteady feet. Her journey left her feeling hollow and worn. Looking down at him, she saw traces of the face she had fallen in love with in the king’s garden. It was not fair of him to do that to her. His face was the same, his body leaner in its form. But she knew that 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 rises, no golden afternoons. The heart of the man died to leave behind the soul of a creature. Hathor began to weep. Through her tears, she glanced down to the main hall. The light that streamed in from the windows was lighter. Dawn was fast approaching. Servaes hadn’t moved from his place on the floor, his limbs didn’t stir. "Servaes," she whispered. The sound was throatily and raw. She knew she could leave him. She knew that if she did, he would die, and she would be free of him. But what of the others? Would they soon forget 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. Feebly, she said, "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 before his face. With strength she didn’t know she possessed, she hauled him to his feet. Then, maneuvering his weight onto her back, she began dragging him down the first flight of stairs. The moisture didn’t dry in her eyes as she carried 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. 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 that 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.

**** 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 he felt the first stab of fangs against his trembling bottom lip. His own blood dripped saltily into his opened mouth from whence the fangs poked. Jirí stood over him, a devilish grin curled on his delighted features. "Painful, eh?" Servaes’ answer came in a shortened gasp. His eyes turned in his head to the ocean. He could see every detail in the waves, could hear 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. Shouting in outrage, he spat in a voice that was no longer his own, "What have you done to me?!" "I have given you life," Jirí answered simply, "and death." "What am I?" Servaes tried to stand. 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. But 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 forming 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," grunted Servaes, sounding as if demons worked in his throat. His body stiffened, and he screamed again in torment as another piece of him perished. "Neither did I," stated Jirí. "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!" shouted Servaes. His eyes glared accusingly. Suddenly, his voice grew like the rumbling of thunder. "I can feel that you have, you damnable demon!"


"Get up. We must get you to bed afore the dawn," Jirí stated. He 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 lean over to 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 said, strolling 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. Seeing every detail of the motion, his senses steadied and his body began to calm. Throatily, he asked, "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 at that moment. Yet there was no desire in his embrace as he pulled his arm about Servaes’ shoulders. Stroking his long nails over Servaes’ ever-paling face, Jirí caressed him like a new toy. Tenderly, he said, "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 could feel a darker power coursing through his veins, a beginning of a hunger so deep that it wrapped 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 mind. 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. And I have the feeling his family will be meeting with an accident soon." Servaes grunted, having no idea of what Jirí spoke of. His eyes rolled in his head. "Oui, Marquis. Methinks Samuel will do nicely. Besides, when you get them younger they can serve you longer. It is such a bother to bind a new human into service, they 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 darkened streets. His guts twitched with a sudden rage. 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.

**** Servaes opened his eyes with a jerk. Inhaling, his senses 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 he had forgotten. Feeling the caress of soft breath next to his skin, he looked over to Hathor. Her worn body rested in slumber. Her thick lashes fanned over her rosy cheeks. With a light, feminine sigh she nestled closer to him, seeking warmth where there was none. His arms urged him to hold her. His body was too weakened to try. He could feel his energies were drained, his blood thinned and cold. Showing the past to Hathor had taken much out of him. It was not as it should have been. It shouldn’t have been so real. But it was. By the feeling of day that surrounded him outside the coffin, it had almost killed him, but for Hathor. Servaes closed his eyes, unable to deny himself the rest he needed. Hathor moaned slightly, her fingers absently curling into the front of his shirt above his heart. She sighed in contentment when she found its beating. He fell back to sleep, pondering how Hathor could have gotten him into his coffin without his knowledge. And, for the undead life of him, he couldn’t understand why she would have bothered.

**** Hathor slowly opened her eyes. She yawned delicately, noticing that Servaes was still by her side. Feeling him in the darkness, she lightly ran her fingers over his face. His eyes were closed. His body was unmoving, just as it had been when she arranged his limbs comfortably next to her.


Stretching her fingers, she felt that most of Servaes’ power was out of her. Her limbs no longer felt as strong, her body a bit weaker than before. She felt as if she’d just broken a terrible fever --weak but joyously no longer ill. The dark tomb of their bed started to close in on her. She pushed away from him. Reaching her hand to the side of the coffin, she watched his face for any sign of movement or pain. Lifting the lid, the room was completely void of sunlight. A light that she had left on in the hall gave her enough to see by. Watching Servaes’ face, it didn’t move. She reached her hand out of the coffin to test her reaction to the day. When she felt the same, she quietly crawled out. Servaes still didn’t move. She shut the lid quickly, not wanting to hurt him. As she did so, she didn’t see the silent brown eyes watching her from within the dimness. Servaes didn’t lift a hand to stop her. He again closed his eyes to sleep. Hathor made her way up the stairs, stopping as she looked at a ray of sunlight crossing over her path. With a deep breath, she reached her hand out to touch the light with the tip of her finger. Fearfully, she jolted back. When she realized the sun didn’t hurt, and she was not on fire, she grew emboldened. Again she tested the light. The warmth of the sun hit her palm, caressing her with its easy kiss. She smiled, relieved that she was once again herself. She glanced at a clock as she jogged up the stairs, seeing that it was already noon. Yawning, she scratched her belly underneath her T-shirt. With a frown, she noticed the spot of blood on the edge. She scraped at it absently as she walked. Suddenly, she froze. Footsteps sounded steadily overhead. Gulping, Hathor held her breath. Little by little, she tried to make her way silently through the formal dining room to the front hall. The hall was empty. Her heart began to pound in fear, the organ jumping in her throat. She wondered if the other vampires sent their human cohorts to come after her during the day when Servaes couldn’t save her. With a ragged breath, she edged her way to the door. Her bared feet slid over the cold marble tiles as she moved. Again she heard a noise. Hathor jumped running for the large front door. Her fingers grasped at the handle about to throw it open. "Miss Hathor? That you, deary?" Hathor sighed in overwhelming relief. Gulping, she turned. Looking up, she saw Mrs. Quaken, her aunt’s housekeeper. She let go of the front door. "Are you just getting home, love?" the elderly woman asked with a smile. Her round face shone with curiosity, though not accusingly so. Her spherical hairdo was a darker shade of her aunt’s style -- round and puffy. Over her slender body she wore the old style dress of a maid’s uniform. "Ah, yeah. Yes, I am. I’m sorry. I meant to leave you a note that I would be gone," Hathor lied. She absently counted the days in her head. Yes, it was Tuesday, the day for the housekeeper to be there. That meant the cleaning crew would be all over the top two floors. Suddenly, she thought of the mess she left in the hall and the bloodied shirt on the bathroom floor. "Have you been here long?" asked Hathor carefully. She tried to act nonchalant as she climbed the stairs. "Just got here about an hour ago. I had some trouble with some of the staff and was only able to bring a couple of the girls with me," the woman answered. As Hathor drew nearer, she could see the worried


lines on the housekeeper’s face that she was trying to hide. "I must admit, I was a bit alarmed when I came up here to start directing the girls." Hathor looked down the hall. She could see the drawn faces of two women in matching black and gray uniforms. One was dark, with skin the color of mocha, the other a blonde woman with freckles spanning across her taut face. They hung back as Hathor stepped forward. Thinking quickly, Hathor exclaimed, "Oh, my goodness. The house must look a mess!" The two maids nodded, their pony-tailed hair shaking vigorously in confirmation. Mrs. Quaken stepped forward to Hathor as if to see if she was indeed not murdered as they first suspected. "I tried to get home in time to pick up. You didn’t call my aunt did you? I wouldn’t want her to worry about me." Hathor waited while Mrs. Quaken shook her head in denial. "Oh, good, she has so much on her mind. I know how bad it must look." Hathor managed a smile. She leaned easily against the railing. Her eyes darted to the floor where she and Servaes had lain during their dreamy journey. Hurriedly, she looked for blood. There was none. "So you are all right then, love?" Mrs. Quaken inquired. Her tone grew probing, her green eyes begged Hathor to explain. Hathor turned her gaze downward, hoping they wouldn’t detect her lie. Looking up at them from underneath her lashes, she said, "You see, my boyfriend is in the theatre -- very new age, avant-garde stuff. Well, last night one of the actresses quit right before they were to begin, and I was compelled to fill in for her. To make a long story short, this machine that they use to pump red dye that looks and feels like blood went haywire. The thing spurted blood-like gunk all over my new white linen shirt." "I see," Mrs. Quaken put forth nodding her head gently at the strange explanation. "Everyone was upset, and it ruined the whole production," continued Hathor, her lies coming easier as she got going. "So, to smooth things over with the manager of the club, we agreed to do a late night performance for free at this other club he owns. I asked one of the girls to drive me home. I took a fast shower and changed, leaving that awful looking shirt on the bathroom floor. And then, in our rush to get out the door, this same girl knocks over that vase. In truth I think she was drinking when I was in the shower because I saw a flask fall out of her purse later." "Well, that is quite something," Mrs. Quaken said smartly. She nodded her head. "But, it does make sense." "I am just sorry that I didn’t remember to leave a note in my haste. I should hate to think what you thought was going on! I mean to find the house a mess, with a bloody shirt on the bathroom floor and no one around!" Hathor shook her head in mock horror. Mrs. Quaken’s nodding turned solemn. Hathor smiled at her, relieved that she so readily believed her. "Yes, it was quite disconcerting. Though I do confess, I didn’t find the shirt. But, this vase … I was very close to calling the Bobbies," Mrs. Quaken announced, thinking of London’s police. "But, it is explained and over with now. Come girls, we have work we must tend to." Well, it could have happened, Hathor thought with only a bit of guilt. Besides, it is more believable than the fact I was bitten by a vampire and saved by another who is asleep in the basement. But please leave the sweet creature alone. I love him and would hate to find a stake in his heart when I go to wake him up.


Oh, and by the way, would any of you like to be his supper tonight? Hathor tried to hide her sarcastic laugh as the words filtered through her head. Mrs. Quaken turned, ordering the two girls about like a gentle drill sergeant. Hathor made her way past them to the bathroom. "Miss Hathor?" Hathor wearily pasted another smile to her lips as she turned. "Would you like me to try and bleach out your shirt?" the housekeeper inquired. "No, thank you. I’ll tend to it later. You have enough work to do." Hathor sighed with relief as the woman disappeared into one of the guest chambers, a basket of cleaning supplies clutched firmly in her hands. Hiding herself in the bathroom, Hathor sunk to the floor. She buried her face in her hands. The red shirt lay where she left it, beyond repair. With a small, weary sound of defeat, she grabbed it up. "What am I to do now?" she whispered in despair. No one answered.

**** Servaes knew the moment Hathor awoke. Her breath had caught in her throat. His body lurched as she ran her fingers over his face in a tenderly searching caress. He longed to open his mouth to bite the sweet flesh of her wrist. He wanted to press kisses up her arm, make love to her in the confines of his coffin where she wouldn’t be able to escape. In disappointment, he watched her leave him. Her beautiful oval face searched him for signs of pain as she opened the lid. And when she closed him in, he caught a brief glimpse of her slender form as she turned away. Servaes let her go, not trying to stop her. He couldn’t chase her through the day if she ran. She was a creature of the daylight, her mortality restored to her. She could again walk in the sun, free of his limitations. Come the night he would be able to find her. Hathor would never be able to escape him. It was too late for that. He needed her. He wanted her. She was his and, for better or worse, she would remain as such. Closing his eyes, he ignored the pain and the guilt that consumed his chest and possessed his soul, as he fell back into a dreamless sleep.

**** Hathor poured herself a cup of hot water, dipping the tea bag into the fine china cup. Mrs. Quaken had boiled the water for her, insisting that she drink some tea to chase away her rough night. Not wanting to be rude, but desperately wishing the cup held coffee instead, Hathor obliged. Opening the cabinet beneath the sink, Hathor threw the bag in the trash. The maids had finished with the


upstairs chores and were, the last time she checked, scrubbing the floor of the main hall. Taking a sip of the hot liquid, Hathor gazed out the window. Again her thoughts turned to the handsome vampire sleeping in the basement. "Ahhh!" Hathor jumped as she heard a terrified screech come up the stairwell. Her heart leapt into her throat. She hadn’t heard the maid venture to the basement. Tearing down the steps, she ran directly for Servaes’ room. The dark housekeeper’s widened eyes instantly found hers in horror. The other women raced down the stairs behind her. Hathor glanced around. The hallway lights were on, as was the light in Servaes’ room. The floor had been mopped half way up from the back. A vacuum sat close to the terrified woman. "Are you hurt?" Hathor sharply inquired of the girl. "No, Miss." The maid pointed a shaking finger to the bedroom. Her mouth worked without making much more than a squeak. Hathor sighed in relief as she looked at the woman’s unharmed neck. The unfortunate maid hadn’t opened Servaes’ coffin, or else she wouldn’t have been standing there alive. "What is going on here, Catherine?" Mrs. Quaken inquired from behind. "What is all that noise?" "A c…coffin, Miss!" Catherine stuttered, still pointing her shaking finger to the bedroom. "Oh," Hathor stated, feigning great relief. "Is that all?" The girl’s rounded eyes were lit with fear as she looked at the strange woman in disbelief. "It is a prop," Hathor explained airily. She walked past the frozen housekeeper into the bedroom. Seeing the coffin unopened on the bed, she forced an easy smile to her face. Crossing over to the bed, she placed her hand on top of the black lid to show them there was nothing to fear. Instantly, a shock ran up her spine. She could feel Servaes beneath the lid, his hand lifting within to lie next to hers. It’s all right, she thought, directing the words at him. She didn’t have to wait long to know if he could hear her. Send them away. She detected his gruff answer in her head. His swarthy accent sent chills over her. She cleared her throat lightly. Smiling at the three women who stared at her, she patted the coffin lightly to enunciate her words. "I told you that my boyfriend was in the theatre --" Hathor began, carefully preparing more of her lies. Boyfriend? Servaes’ voice mocked laughingly. She tried not to listen to him, his deep sultry tone echoed in her mind, rich with amusement. The sound made her limbs shake with longing. "-- and he needed to store a few things here. This coffin is a prop for a vampire he pretends to be." Pretends mademoiselle? Do you need further proof? Servaes’ chuckling remarks irritated her, making


her lose her train of thought. Crawl back in here and let me show you -Quiet! Or I will lift the lid myself! she threatened back. The maids watched her face contort to a strange frown only to instantly turn back into a sweet smile. "But, it is a coffin, Miss," Catherine mumbled. She eyed it in disgust. "I know. I didn’t think to tell you earlier. I honestly forgot that it was here. Just tell me what needs to be done, and I will straighten up this room," Hathor offered. "I can see you are unsettled by its presence." Servaes’ laughter grew quieter. Hathor tried not to make her smile too bright as she looked at the women in expectation. Her hand balled into a fist, desperately wanting to strike the lid to shut the irritating creature up completely and get him out of her thoughts. Mrs. Quaken mumbled under her breath about having too much to do to be standing around gawking at a casket. She ordered the blonde girl to go upstairs and finish her work. As they left, Hathor heard the girl whisper, "Theater folk sure are fascinating." "I just have to dust and vacuum, Miss," Catherine said carefully, after a strange silence passed. "I’ll do it," Hathor smiled. "You go to the next bedroom or finish up whatever else you need to do down here. And don’t worry. I will explain everything to my aunt. She will not have any complaints." "All right." Catherine gave a wary look at the coffin but did as the woman suggested. Hathor sighed when the housekeeper was gone. She glared playfully at Servaes’ box. She could still hear him chuckling. Cad! she shot at him. What? You’re the one who said I was your boyfriend. Hathor could hear the innocent tease in his thoughts. Now, lock the bedroom door and come in here with me. I want to show you something. There is no way I am getting in there with you. And if you open the lid you will be blasted with so much sunlight the house will explode! Hathor directed back. Ma chère, he pleaded, please come in. I want to prove to you how real I am. Walking over to the coffin, she tapped her finger on the black top, as she mumbled under her breath, "You owe me one, Servaes. Now I am stuck cleaning when I’d much rather be upstairs staring aimlessly out my window." "Miss?" Catherine called, inquiringly. "Nothing," Hathor sang back as cheerfully as she could muster. Come back in here, chéri, and I will make it up to you, he offered. His accent grew thick and husky. She felt his hand stir beneath her palm. She could just imagine his boyish grin as the words rolled out of his mind. But the eyes that she remembered were more human than vampire. She froze, realizing what she was doing. She was flirting


with a man who didn’t exist. The Servaes she loved was dead. Or was he? She was so confused. Shaking her head, she shivered as she felt him run his finger underneath her palm. He lightly traced the pattern of her hand. She felt him as sure as if there was nothing between them. Drawing her hand away, she grabbed the vacuum and plugged it into the wall with unsure hands. She then grabbed a dust cloth lying outside the door in a basket. Spraying some dusting spray on the rag, she hurriedly began to swipe the wood. Are you frightened of me, ma petite? Are you afraid I will bite you? His words were still playful, but unmistakably full of promise. The thoughts were followed by silence. When she refused to answer, he directed, I will have you, one way or another, Hathor. You can’t hide from me. The sunlight will not last forever. Come out here and say that to my face, she challenged. Her tone was a bit harsh as she swiped furiously at the wood. She couldn’t forget the life he had shown her. It tore at her chest. When he didn’t answer, she growled hotly at him, "That is what I thought, monsieur." She grabbed the vacuum, turning it on. The noise drowned out anything he might say. She pushed it over the carpet haphazardly, doing her best to stay calm. It was disconcerting how close he was. Inside his prison of darkness, Servaes glared at the lid. His fingers still traced where her hand had lain above him. He didn’t dare enter the sunlight to answer her, no matter how badly he wanted to. Finishing the floor, Hathor grabbed the rag and threw it into the basket. She shut off the vacuum, pulling the plug out of the wall by the cord. Quickly, she pushed it from the room. I’ll see you tonight, Hathor, he told her in promise. She gasped but refused to answer. There was a deep assurance in his words, but also a grave sadness. Hathor abruptly shut the door with a hard snap. With a few words to the maid ordering her to stay out of the room, she ran up the stairs, as far away from the vampire as she could manage.

Chapter Fourteen

The day crept along with a tormenting slowness, full of anticipation and worry. The housekeepers finished their work at Kennington House, leaving quickly with few words. Hathor knew they thought her strange, but she didn’t care. During the day, Hathor tried to feel safe. She knew the vampires slept and wouldn’t come looking for her so long as the sun shone. If she stayed locked in the house she could assure herself that no human


consort would be coming to get her. The assurance did little good. Shadows made her jump in warning, and the slightest movements of tree branches against the howling wind caused her skin to crawl in trepidation. For all that the time appeared to slither along, when the sunset finally approached it was too fast for Hathor. She watched from the balcony as the bright orange and red glow of the sun fell behind the trees of the back gardens, turning more purple than red. Chills racked her body in little bumps. The soft light fell over the trim grasses and flowing fountains, making the stone statues come alive as if they moved deliberately in the stillness. The statues reminded her of the attack in the alley. She stared so hard at them that, at times, she could convince herself that someone was there watching her. Again and again she would count their stony numbers to make sure no extras appeared. Much to her own dismay, she spent the lighted hours applying lotion, rubbing it in with nervous fingers, and perfume to her skin. She then carefully straightened her hair and applied a light layer of makeup -enough to highlight her face, but little enough that it was not obvious she put the effort in. Picking her clothes was another great affair. She tried to find something simple, but not too sexy. She didn’t want Servaes knowing she thought about his promise all day. Though, in truth, she thought of little else. She forced her mind to remember that the man she waited for was dead, and the vampire who would come was only a walking shell of the man with whom she had fallen in love. She saw the coldness in Servaes’ undead gaze. She felt the power and danger he had within him, the capability he had for death. But, damned as she might become, she couldn’t stay away from him. He would consume her soul with the black beast he hid so well, and Hathor knew that she would have to let him. The creature had her mesmerized. She knew what he was, and she couldn’t fight it. The vampires in the alley were right. He had her marked. Finally deciding on a simple black dress, she slipped on matching hose. Her shoes were only slightly heeled, not too fancy. Satisfied that she looked casual, yet sophisticated, she poured herself a glass of wine to calm her nerves and continued to wait on the balcony. If anything, her clothes might give her the power to intimidate him. It was a long shot, but one she needed to comfort herself with. Her heart raced faster with each falling inch of the setting sun. When finally the moon took complete control of the sky, her insides were a mess. Swallowing down the last bit of wine in her glass, she turned to go to the bottle. She knew Servaes would hunt first before coming to her. Part of her hoped it took him a long time. She tried not to think of the life he was taking in sustaining his own. Pouring another glass, she felt him more than heard him behind her. She set down the bottle on the pewter serving tray with a clink. Lifting her wineglass, she turned. The red liquid swirled easily in its crystal. Her nerves whirled uneasily in her stomach. She forced a bored yawn as she crossed over to the balcony. She could feel that he was there, waiting for her. Her feet were silent on the carpet. Coming through the doors, she saw that she was right. The sight of him hit her like a stout breeze. Servaes leaned leisurely against the railing, watching for her. He wore his usual clothes, turn of the twentieth century in style. Tight slacks pulled against his legs, a loose fitted shirt blew unfettered in the night breeze to hug his pale muscled chest. His skin was supernaturally smooth, and his demonic eyes hushed her with a soft inner light. Already, within the potency of his prevailing gaze, she could feel the


length of him crushed against her. Every one of his lightest touches was burned into her memory. She endeavored to give him a polite smile, not too sweet yet not too cynical. She well understood why he had come. She knew in part what he wanted to do to her, though she didn’t know how much he would demand. Would he require her blood? Her life? Her soul? Lifting the glass to her lips, she said, "I would offer you some, monsieur, but I believe you would have already had your wine for the evening." Hathor sipped the strong liquor. She walked to the rail as if she hadn’t a care in the world. He studied her through veiled eyes that flashed with green. She knew he was trying to read her thoughts. She didn’t let him. Instead, she kept her mind focused on the fountain in the distance. She stared at its pale purple lights shining in the waters. The cold stone brought with it no comfort. "You are right, mademoiselle," he answered quietly. "I cannot drink of your wine -- at least not from a glass." Hathor shivered, losing a bit of her composure as he glanced meaningfully at her neck. Taking a deep breath, she forced her chin into the air and willed her heart to slow. Her ruse didn’t work. He could hear the beating as it pounded fiercely like the beckoning call of a native’s drum. Servaes studied her slender form. The dress she wore clung to her body, hugging the sway of her hips, the long line of her thighs. The skirt stopped at the knee, exposing the pleasing curve of her calves beneath seductive black hose. The shortened sleeves covered her shoulders, the neckline leaving her slender neck and collarbone exposed. He trembled with longing. She was captivating, enchanting. He could detect a faint line of blackness around her eyes, outlining them pleasingly, making them look big and wondrous as she stared at him. She was alive, so mortal, so fragile and powerless. He could hear her heart, smell her blood. He had the supreme power over her. He could kill her, torture her, snuff out her life with a single gesture. But, that life which he could so effortlessly stop had become so precious to him. For a brief moment, he couldn’t move, and in that eternal second she possessed the power--the power to awe and manipulate him if only she knew how to wield it. In that moment, she could have enslaved him to her. Within a blink, the moment passed, and Servaes was in control once more. The vampire knew that he should leave her, knew that he should send her away for the whole of her short life. He couldn’t do it. The words wouldn’t form in his throat. It was too late for both of them. They were linked together in an ill-fated maze, at the end of which, there was only death and blood. He slowly came up to her with the graceful movements Hathor knew him capable of. His hand lifted lightly to brush her jaw, fitting next to the creamy softness of her skin, the silken locks of her auburn hair. He turned her eyes around to meet with his. His gaze bore into her, searching, wanting. She trembled at the raw emotion he allowed revealed to her. "I told you I would come tonight," he whispered with a glance to her lips. Her mouth parted in breath. He could smell the scent of wine on her tongue, intoxicating him as it swirled in her blood. But she didn’t lean to invite his kiss as he had hoped. Instead, she turned away from him. His hand fell to the side. He rested against the railing, waiting patiently for her to speak. "Was it real?" she inquired softly. She studied the wine in her glass, the red liquid reflecting the silvery moonlight. She couldn’t bring herself to drink it, so she poured it over the side of the balcony. She waited, watching the liquor fall into darkness.


Hathor didn’t need to explain her question. Servaes knew she spoke of the dream he showed her. Quietly, he said, "Yes and no. It was real, long ago in the time that it was lived. But, to us now, it is a dream of a past. Do you understand?" His words were gently spoken. Slowly, she nodded. "So I did travel back to the past." "I believe you did in a way. Do not ask me how. I do not know. I myself do not have the power to journey through time at will. But I remember now seeing you on the ship as I crossed to America. I can’t even recall the name of that boat, and I had forgotten the journey until you. It was you there with me. I did not remember your face as the years took the fine curves of it from me. I remembered you only as a vague hallucination of a woman long dead." "Then it was you in the gardens? It was you who talked and laughed with me? It really happened? It was not just a dream?" She could barely believe it. It was the only thing that made sense. It had to be real. It felt real. She could sense the confusion in Servaes as he tried to answer her. He didn’t know how it was possible either. Looking down at her hands, she suddenly remembered the splinter she received in the boat. In her nervousness she had ignored the minor irritation. Cautiously, she ran her finger over her palm. With a delicate wince, she realized it was still there. Servaes, seeing her discomfort, lifted her palm. He absently hovered his finger over the splinter, drawing it out. It disappeared into the wind. "I remember now, the day in the garden. Jirí set me up that night to die. He wanted to go to the new land. He was bored. He wanted me with him. However, I was too widely known just to kill. If he had me shipped to America and changed there, then we would be able to come back to France and reclaim my title. And that is what we did just a few years later. By that time, King Louis married his mistress, Madame de Maintenon, and did not care about me. Nevertheless, Jirí and I both bewitched him with our power. He did not even remember sending me away. Those who did mysteriously ended up a victim of a strange plague that affected France that year." Servaes didn’t reach for her again. He waited for her next question. He did not have to wait long. "So if it was true, then you did want me to marry you? You said you wanted to ask me that night. You told me on the boat." Hathor shivered. It might have happened several hundred years in the past, but to her it was only yesterday. Her heart pulled with a curious emotion, one that had not a thing to do with desire. "Yes. I meant it then, but you know how things have changed. I am not that man. I am what you see. I will not lie or trick you. That man was killed. You saw my human death and what you see before you is all that is left of the man." Servaes stepped away from the railing. His eyes bore into her as his hands rose from his sides. He held still, waiting for her to examine him. She did, turning carefully to watch his every move. Hathor’s eyes roamed over his deliciously firm body. Lightly, she whispered, "You look the same, except for your eyes. They are older. They tell the story of your long days." "I am not the same. What you see is a shell. I would not have you fooled. Do not imagine that you are with that other man. My body is all that remains of the man who walked you in the gardens. He was a boy, a fool who didn’t even know what a vampire was." Servaes chuckled to himself -- a slow, ridiculing laugh.


He dropped his arm, stepping up to her. Before she knew what was happening, he took the empty glass from her loose fingers. He set in on the balcony. Her eyes darted to it in question. When she turned back to him, her face met with his steady hand. His palm was warm as it cupped her cheek. The pad of his thumb rubbed over her smooth skin. "You know what is going to happen," he stated boldly. There was no embarrassment or hesitation in his eyes. He spoke like he only confirmed a well-known fact. "You cannot deny me or escape it. I will have you. I will possess your body." "I --" She tried to deny him, but couldn’t find the words. You want my body, my blood, but what of my heart? Do you no longer care anything for that? The idea broke through her spirit, but she couldn’t stop his quest as he touched her. His fingers brushed over her lips, silencing any plea. There was so much pain in his touch, and yet she couldn’t pull away from it. Slowly, he shook his head. "No, chéri," he broke in. "There is nothing you can say to change it. Do not fight me. If you let yourself, you will enjoy my touch." She gasped, enraptured completely by the spell in his eyes. His words were full of husky promise. Her body screamed at her to kiss him, to give herself over to the beast completely. Her limbs begged her to believe him, to hold him and touch him. But her mind trembled, unable to give away the control. She was frightened of him. Her heart hammered in her chest, protesting the fact that it was so thoroughly ignored by his words. Her eyes unexpectedly welled with tears. She tried to pull away. Her feet wouldn’t move. His gaze held her captive, puzzled, as he took in every nuance of her resistance. "The maids finished their work today," she said, desperate to change the subject. "They will not disturb you again." Servaes continued to study her. His body drew closer. He could smell her tentative longing. He could detect the frantic beating of her heart, her deepened breath. He saw her eyes try to draw away only to get caught back up in his gaze -- just as he knew he held no power over her to make her react to him thus. Her response was her own, pure and unforced. "Are you frightened?" he questioned with sudden insight. He knew her to be nervous, but the look he caught filtering briefly in her eyes went beyond apprehension. She was deeply terrified. Gulping, Hathor nodded, unable to lie. "Open your mind to me," Servaes murmured in a persuasive plea. His accent floated around her in temptation. The fog of his words was a palpable mist around her head. "Give me your thoughts. I can take away the fear." "I don’t want you to," she answered honestly. "I like to feel." "Are you afraid that I am not shaped like human men?" he asked, knowing it to be a natural apprehension she might have. He was a creature after all. She pondered his words before shaking her head in denial. The thought hadn’t really occurred to her. She just assumed he was equipped the same.


"There was a time when innocence was not as rare," he said gently. His eyes bore into her in wonderment. Carefully, he whispered, "But surely, chéri, in this day and age you have been with a man before. It is very much the same -- only better. Of that I can promise. I will not hurt you. I will not be too rough. I will be able to read your body better than any lover in the past. I will be able to give you what you want." But I don’t know what to want, she thought in desperation. Lightly, she said, "I … no." His eyebrow rose in question, daring her to deny him. "I was engaged to this man, well boy really. We grew up near each other and dated throughout high school. My parents loved him, but I don’t know that I ever really did. I think I was with him to please them. He told me he was old fashioned and wanted us to wait until marriage to … well … and so we never did. Then in college I caught him with another man. After that, I did date, but it just never came up," said Hathor breathlessly. Her cheeks stained to pink. Finally, she drew her eyes down to the balcony. She squirmed nervously. "I understand if you want to go find someone else, maybe someone with experience. If you only do this every couple hundred of years, you’ll want it to be memorable." Hearing her confession, he could smell it, her purity. He wondered why he didn’t detect the faint scent of it before now. The knowledge hit him like a rock. He was speechless. When her eyes moved back up to look at him, she shrugged delicately and began to back away. She moved towards the bedroom door. His piercing gaze followed her. "I do not want anyone else, Hathor," he whispered softly. His lips barely moved, but the words were unmistakable in her head. She froze. Watching as he came to her, she shivered uncontrollably. Touching her cheek again, he added, "And you were meant to be with no one but me. I am your destiny." Hathor swallowed. All her life had she not felt the same thing? Had she not felt something in the distance holding her at bay? Keeping her from seeking out men? The few times she had drawn close, fate intervened -- once with a car crash, several times catching the man with another woman, a phone call, an interruption. Thinking on it, she shivered. Was fate holding her for him? Was she his destiny as well? Servaes’ mouth came down slowly. His tongue met with her lips, delving over the edge to taste the wine on her tongue. She could detect the faint impression of blood on his. His mouth tormented and excited her. Her head told her that it was wrong, her body couldn’t listen. Tentatively, she raised her hands to rest on his broad shoulders. Her eyes fluttered open as his lips left hers. The brown orbs of his gaze flashed with an eerie light. They drew her in. She wanted him. Her body burned for him. She would never deny him. "Is this real or in my head?" she asked in breathless awe. His hands found the gentle curve of her waist. His palm fitted over her hip. The heat of his touch soaked through her black dress. "Because it feels real." "It is real," he murmured, "very real -- more so than you or I." Hathor gasped as his mouth claimed her with an unearthly force. A moan panted from her lips, stifled by his mouth, swallowed up into his body. His hands ran over her, caressing her boldly through the thin material. Easily, he lifted her next to him, floating forward as he kissed her. He brought her into the room,


lifting his hand over his shoulder to close the balcony doors behind them. "I should get … the lights," Hathor murmured, whimpering, as his mouth moved over her chin to her throat. "Ah." Servaes didn’t stop in his exploration, only lifting his fingers to flick the switch from the distance. Then, like a sudden burst, her candles lit on the dresser. Hathor moaned and gasped in wonderment. Her eyes rolled in her head from the pleasure his lips wrought. She grew dizzy with the scent of him, the feel of his unyielding body pressed firmly along hers. The fire of his kisses moved down until he was leaning over to feel the soft curve of her breasts. Hathor arched her back. His grip supported her easily with his strength. Her hands lifted unbidden to stroke the length of his hair. It fell around her fingers like a cocoon. Her hands moved over his strong neck, to the broad play of his shoulders, and down center folds of his chest. The white linen glided seductively against her searching palms. She could feel the heat of him, the fiery touch of his flesh underneath. Servaes’ kisses grew bolder, licking over her skin to taste her. She could feel the brush of his fangs as they skimmed over her flesh, but she was not afraid. They didn’t bite down or hurt her in their dangerous stroking. Slowly, his fingers pulled up the skirt of her dress, bunching it at her waist. His lips broke free of her to gaze into her stormy eyes. She felt him lift her body slowly off the floor. Her shoes fell from her feet. He kicked his boots off to join hers. They floated back, carried by his will to the soft comforts of her bed. Gently, he lowered her, letting her feet fall on the soft mattress. Then, staring deeply into her eyes, he urged her to her knees. Hathor watched the confident bend of his chest, as she knelt before him. His flat stomach and narrow hips passed by her sight, perfect, unmarred. Her hands reached out to touch him about the waist. Her palms stroked over his thighs, near the bend of his buttocks. Servaes groaned his approval. Looking up the long length of his body, she saw his desire growing before her heated gaze. Grabbing the hem of his shirt, he pulled it over his head in a swift movement. Hathor stared nervously at the pale beauty of his skin, warmed with the golden glow of candlelight. A trail of hair disappeared from beneath his navel into the flat waist of his pants. She continued to gaze up at him. He came to her, dropping to his knees. Her hands slid over his smooth skin. Then, suddenly, his strong arms were all around her, caressing her, touching her, forcing her back onto the bed. His lips traced over her body, slowly stirring the longing he smelled in her blood. The heady taste of wine swirled in her head, though nothing compared to his mystifying touch. His hands pulled her dress up her thighs, unveiling her athletically long legs. Stopping with a groan as he reached her thigh-high hose, his fingers dipped under the edge of the top seam. With rapt concentration, he slid the stockings beneath her knees. Leaning over, he kissed the inside of her creamy thigh. His pointed fangs brushed over the skin. Hathor tensed in pleasure. He forced her legs to spread apart with ease. His hand trailed up her calf, beginning at the toes and pulling her leg up. Servaes came over her, kissing her covered stomach, breathing hotly near her navel as his hand slid up her hip beneath her lacy panties. His eyes bore into her, looking up the valley of her breasts. His body pulsed with desire. He could smell the temptation of her blood, could feel every subtle movement of her body as she responded to his touch.


Her hands were in his hair, lightly pushing and pulling as he moved. She touched his bare shoulders, his smooth chest. And, before she realized what was happening, he worked her dress off of her, pulling it over her head. "Oh-hh," she moaned, trembling and soft and achingly feminine. Hathor felt the cool air hit her naked flesh. Servaes’ beastly moan joined hers. His lips found the sanctuary of her breasts while his body conquered the distance between their skins. He opened his mouth to breathe his fiery passion against the lacy black line of her bra. His tongue lapped at the thin barrier until it was wet and her nipple budded through silk into his awaiting mouth. She panted, moaned, cried out for more. Flesh rubbed along silken flesh. Hands stroked tender arches and curves. They explored every unfamiliar valley of each other’s bodies until they became well versed in their shared passion. Servaes held true to his promise. He didn’t go too fast, his touch not too rough. He instinctively knew how to make her respond until neither of them could think, neither could protest. All they knew were each other and the impassioned blood that soared between them, begging to be released of the aroused torture that awoke within. With a gasp, Hathor’s legs were forced to spread apart, accommodating his weight. She rubbed her stocking covered calves over his breeches. Servaes automatically fitted himself to her, stroking her through the barrier of her panties. She could feel his arousal against her, begging to be free, burning her with its fire. Her fingers moved to his waist, finding the laces at his sides. Without thought, she pulled them, freeing the material from his skin. Her feet moved up his powerful legs to glide the material down off his hips. Servaes chuckled, a low husky sound that held no mocking -- only the dominant pleasure of a conqueror. Leaning up to see her beautiful form sprawled beneath him, he smiled a lecherously pleased smile. He took one of his nails and laid it on her skin just above her breasts. With a stroke of his finger, light and lingering, he cut through her bra. The material instantly released her breasts, falling away, leaving her arching chest exposed. Next his nail moved over her flat stomach to circle the dip of her navel. Hathor’s hips arched in response, trying to find his hand to put an end to her torture. Servaes licked his lips, wanting to taste the buds of her ripened nipples. Swallowing, he held back. Then, with a slash, he drew his finger over one hip and then the other. Her panties fell open at the sides. Servaes grinned. Taking the broken material, he pulled it slowly from between her legs, letting it rub against her heated center in a slow caress. "Oh," Hathor moaned, her legs working restlessly against him. She had no time for embarrassment as he flattened his hand to her stomach. She pushed up to seek an end to the agony he stirred inside of her. Servaes wouldn’t let her find her release just yet. He had waited too many years for a woman like her. He searched endless lifetimes and, now that he found her again, he would finish what he wanted to do in his human life. He would claim her soul completely. She would never be able to belong to another. No matter how unfair he told himself it was, he couldn’t stop. When he was with her, there was a greater force at play, driving him on to complete possession. Servaes felt his freed manhood brush the soft skin of her inner thigh. A deep sound resonated in his throat. Instantly his mouth was on her breasts, sucking and licking them. Hathor gasped, moaned, panted, pleaded. His name left her lips on a desperate whisper, "Servaes."


He could deny himself no longer. The wetness of her center drew first his hand, to plunder and stroke the velvet of her depths. She was moist for him and scaldingly hot. Next he found her with his shaft, bringing the hard tip to her opening. His hips moved impatiently, dipping slowly at her entrance to test her resolve to him. "Are you ready for me, chéri?" he asked, his voice tightly drawn. His only answer was her deep moan and the searching of her willing hips. Servaes looked into her eyes, trying to draw out any pain his possession might cause her. He lowered his mouth to her neck. His hands found the soft globe of her breast in a hungry caress. He could feel her mind clinging to every movement, every whispering touch of his body. With a primal growl, he thrust himself forward. His arousal moved swift and deep to bury inside of her. Hathor cried out in surprise. Servaes held still within her tight folds. He could smell the drop of blood that bore evidence to her purity. "I want to taste you," he groaned against her throat. His mouth opened. His fangs waited, poised and ready above her. His hips moved in a shallow caress, adjusting and pushing at her tightness, willing her body to expand and accept his pulsing length. "And I want you to taste my passion for you. Take my blood inside of you as your sweet body takes me." Hathor moaned. She wiggled her hips innocently against him, trying to put out the anguish of vehement desire. His thrusts grew bolder, quicker and deeper with each movement. When she didn’t answer him, Servaes stated his plea darkly but didn’t stop his possession, "Please, chéri. Let me drink of your desire. Taste me within you." "Yes!" Hathor screamed. Her body tingled in ways she couldn’t understand. The seductive persistence of his accented words drove her mad. His forbidden request excited her. As the word escaped her throat, Servaes moved his wrist before his mouth, biting down to puncture his vein with his sharpened teeth. Licking his lips, he offered his life’s fluid to her parted mouth. Then, as she raised her lips to drink, he just as quickly latched his teeth into her neck. Hathor groaned and bucked at the deepness of his kiss. The white heat of his fangs only hurt for an instant as his mouth soothed the ache with his euphoric motion. His blood dripped in her mouth, his lips drank from her throat, and his hips continued to delve within her. The desire in his blood swam through her, heightening her own tingling emotions. She was claimed by his bite, the length of his thrusting erection as it delved deep and hard within her. In his passion Servaes grabbed her, lifting her up off the bed. His strength threw them into the hard bedroom wall, their bodies never drawing apart as they dangled above the floor. In his frenzied possession, he wildly stroked her. He could feel her all around him, inside of him. The color of her crimson blood filled his eyes. The black pupils grew large in the dominate red -- like a beast. Pulling away from her neck, his wrist fell from her mouth. The wounds healed instantly. He gazed deeply into her soul, his wicked look piercing into her, changing colors in his need. His lips parted, and he kissed her, never taking his eyes away from her as the blue orbs looked trustingly back at him, accepting what he gave her and who he was. The heat of their straining bodies built to the point of explosion. Hathor trembled, shrieking her approval as wondrous colors and sensations blurred around her. Her body lit with fire and ice, her limbs grew numb as they tensed, her bones melted in ecstasy.


The balcony doors burst open. A gust of wind surrounded them with the natural force of their deeds. Servaes met her release with his own, with a passion that waited for centuries. Their bodies froze in an endless trace of time. For the moment, as the fire subsided to leave behind its glowing warmth, nothing mattered. Hathor fell limply against him. Her breath fanned out over his strong neck and muscled chest. Servaes held her fast, keeping their bodies completely together. There was no denying that she was entirely his.

Chapter Fifteen

A night wind swept throughout the chamber to cool it, blowing the licking flames of the candles into oblivion. Hathor lifted her head, gasping as she realized where they were. She wasn’t scared as she met the turbulent depths of Servaes’ gaze. The brown orbs quickly found themselves, losing all trace of emotion. He smiled a conquering smile of a man knowing he brought his woman passion. Hathor blushed, unable to look away from his magnetic stare. Part of her cried at the expression that greeted her, a small part she hid from his probing. He is not the man, she told herself. But she already knew that. A piece of her didn’t even care, declaring she should take him however she could get him and damned the future and the cost. Servaes drew her down to the bed. The breeze caressed her naked body, making her shiver with the chill. As she landed on the soft cushion, she noticed the blood on his lips and chin. Hesitantly, she felt her neck. It was smooth and didn’t hurt. Servaes chuckled, a low sultry sound. Reaching behind him, he took up his shirt and wiped his mouth on it, then moved to do the same for her. The shirt moved across her lips, and the smell of him engulfed her senses. She closed her eyes, waiting for him to finish. When she again looked at him, it was with a trace of sadness. Servaes watched her shoulders lightly quiver. His body lay next to her, drawing her down on the bed as he fitted her along his side. She could feel the connection of their blood. She could feel him all about her senses, inside of her. She knew that even if she banished him from her and he left, she would never be free of him. She wanted to hate him for it, but couldn’t. Servaes couldn’t offer her what she needed. She needed a man who could stay with her, be with her, and grow old with her. The beautiful man before her would never fade, never die. Hathor couldn’t bear to know she would do all those things without him. "What is it, chéri?" he asked. "Why are there tears in your eyes? I did not hurt you."


There was questioning in the statement, though Servaes knew he’d taken the pain of her maidenhead away from her. Hathor shook her head in denial but refused to tell him how she felt. There was no use. He never promised her aught but passion, and that he did give her. "I’m cold," she said at last. Her shivers didn’t come from the draft. Servaes lifted his hand, shutting the balcony doors with a gesture. Then, flicking his finger, he latched them so they wouldn’t open again. The silvery moonlight trailed in around them, lighting them with a softened blue glimmer. Using his power, he lifted her up and brought the blankets over their bodies. He pulled her into his arms. "Better?" he murmured against her temple. She managed a weak nod. "Can I get pregnant?" she asked suddenly, drawing back to study the chiseled lines of his face. "What I mean is … can I with you?" "No, chéri. Children are something I cannot give you," he answered. The thought struck him strangely in the pit of his stomach. He ignored it. "Oh," she mumbled, not sure how to feel. What would they have been anyway? Human? Vampire? A strange half-breed? Servaes studied her. He could feel the steady beat of her heart, could hear it clearly in his ears. His body never felt more alive, his blood never so quickened as it was in her arms. Stroking her hair, he said, "Give me your mind. Let me read you." Hathor swallowed. She started to shake her head, but when she saw the desperate look on his face, she nodded. Closing her eyes, she relaxed. She could feel him, his thoughts, as he entered her. She didn’t fight it as he probed within her, though she was frightened by what he might discover. Closing his eyes, Servaes instantly pulled back in surprise. His eyes bore intensely into her as he withdrew his thoughts from her. His face gave away nothing. Carefully, he whispered, "You love me." Hathor’s lips trembled, terrified. Hesitantly, she nodded. He had discovered it easily. She should have known he would. The truth of it flowed through her so intensely that surely he could feel it inside of her as he could feel everything else. "And you knew I would find it," he said, mimicking her thoughts, though he didn’t read into them. Again Hathor nodded, unable to speak. She watched him from beneath her lashes. 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. Harshly, he snapped out in anger, "I am not that man on the boat! I am not that human form that strolled with you in the gardens! I am a creature. You must understand that! The man you love died. We are not the same." "You are the one who danced with me in the gardens. You saved my life," she murmured, moisture brimming her long lashes. Her lips quivered, fighting to hold back tears. "Your life was merely spared. There are those who want you dead still." His eyes grew wide with blackness. "I have saved nothing."


"But --" "I have no humanity," he growled. His voice trembled and shook. His body withdrew completely from her, his flesh hating him for making it. His skin begged to be next to her, to hold her and make love to her again and again, forever. His breath escaped him like a seething whisper. "Loneliness," she stated coolly. "There is humanity in that. And I can feel your loneliness within you. I never asked that you love me in return." "Quit saying that! Quit thinking it! You do not know what you feel," he protested furiously. "You are confused. My blood has confused your mind, clouded your thoughts. It is too much for your human brain to handle. You are bewitched." "Why are you so angry?" she asked suddenly. As she watched, his body blurred, speeding up until he was before her in his pants. She gasped, clutching the covers to her naked breasts. Her heart beat wearily at the look he gave her, dispassionate and outraged. There was death in him, and darkness. With sudden realization, she said, "It is you who are afraid. You are afraid of what I offer you, because I don’t demand anything from you. I give you my heart freely, and that scares you." "I?" he asked. Then, cruelly, he came for her, grasping her roughly under the chin. He dropped the mask from his features, letting her see the full force of the demon he truly could be. Hathor flinched in fright. His pale skin transformed in the moonlight, pulling and pulsing with little blue veins. The veil was lifted. His eyes filled with the angry red of blood--her blood. Her fingers dug into his wrists to no avail, the nails clawing at the unaffected skin. Growling, he said with the voice of a demon, "Tell me then. What do you propose? If you love me, will you join me? Shall I make you one of the undead? Would you like to taste all the world has to offer? Together we could trail the earth, leaving a kingdom of corpses in our paths. We could rule the planet, eating our way through the humanity you think to love so much. Here, let me show it to you." He moved so swiftly that she couldn’t protest. Servaes put his hand on her forehead, sending her a rush of dark images. Horrible depictions of death and blood in a torrent she couldn’t slow or deny. There were centuries of the lowest of mankind marched before her, seen only as a vampire could see them -their true inner depths, the darkest pleasure of their cruelest of thoughts and deeds. Hathor’s mouth opened wide with a suspended gasp. The cords of her throat strained in hard lines. Her eyes rolled in her head. She heard the screams of his past victims -- saw the endless line of their faces frozen in fear, in rapture, in dread, in destruction. And there was death, so much death. The victim’s faces disturbed her initially. But beyond that, she saw why they were chosen. She saw the deeds of their numerous sins. She saw the woman he punished that first night in the club, saw the agony he visited back upon her. The woman was strapping her five young children down in her van, having drugged the older ones on generic sleeping pills. Then, she watched as her children screamed, tumbling into the water to their deaths. Hathor could feel the sickening sense of freedom the woman felt, complacent in her deed. The murderer’s pleasure flowed throughout Hathor’s limbs, choking her with the flood of enjoyment the mother felt. Hathor tried to fight it, but it was real, and it was there, and it sickened her beyond measure. The mother blamed an innocent maid for their disappearance and paid her lawyer well to make sure the poorer woman was found guilty of the deed. The maid was the only one who loved them. It was not as if the woman couldn’t afford to raise the children. She was rich and resented them for keeping her from her


wild, lustful ways. She hated them for driving men away from her. The maid shot herself after being held responsible for the crime. Servaes withdrew his hand from Hathor’s sweat-beaded head. Hathor gasped and shuddered. Her body fell limp. Her mouth fell open for breath. He forcibly held her before him, making her face his turbulent and cruel expression. "Would you like to see more, my love?" he spat sarcastically. The words formed around his lengthened fangs in a hiss of ridicule. His gaze was fraught with the red of blood and anger. The words were like a slap across her face. Her eyes cleared and widened at his malicious tone. His fangs, like daggers, were unleashed as he spoke, darting dangerously in front of her gaze. "Does it not look enchanting? I could show you centuries of cruelty. Just say the word, and I will give you this gift of immortality. See then how much you think to love your vampire." Hathor trembled, truly frightened of him for the first time. His face was contorted with pain. She could feel his sadness as surely as if it was hers. The mother’s pleasure still flowed inside of her -- a sick and twisted feeling that overwhelmed her heart with misery as she fought it. That someone could find such joy in the pain of others terrified Hathor. Tears streamed down her face, as she begged, "Stop. Please, stop it. I don’t want to be a killer. I don’t want to see anymore. I hate that you made me feel it." The eyes of the children haunted her, as did the contentment of the mother’s sense of freedom. It shocked her. It made tears pool in her eyes. She loved Servaes for making the mother suffer before she died. She hated him for showing so much of his world to her. He gripped her tightly as she tried to wiggle free. "Do they not excite you?" he inquired coldly. "Does the death not quicken your blood?" "You have made your point, Marquis," she spat. The images he gave her swirled in her mind, confusing her thoughts. His eyes narrowed lazily. His lips curling up in savagery, as he said, "You cannot love me. What you love is a dead man." Hathor felt him leave her. She blinked slowly, falling back onto the bed. When she opened her eyes, she was alone. Servaes was gone. And she couldn’t help but wonder if he was right. Did she truly only love the human him? Or could she also love the vampire? She saw the pain killing brought to him, how it hurt him each time even after hundreds of years. She felt how he rejected hurting children and the innocent. Every one of his victims had a dark secret. Whereas it wasn’t the ideal of a justice system, it made sense on a baser level. Hathor couldn’t blame him. But could she forgive him? Shaking her head, she tore at 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. Hathor fell asleep, her body too weakened from his malevolent gift to do much else. 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 body felt as if she gave it a hard workout, the muscles in her limbs pulled so stiffly 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 and 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 sniffed. 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 back yard. 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 were no more -- just those simple words. But how could she forget him? It would have 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 that 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, who 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 Sixteen

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 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 is 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 with a great deal of dust flying about. 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 if 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 that framed the thick old wood and hid them from view. The round table dominated the room, its legs and edges carved with old design, and in front of each chair the symbol of the tribe. In the middle of the unbroken circle was a hollow. The floor sunk 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 with ghoulish contrast. High-backed chairs surround 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. 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 as 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 his body. The longer the old one slept, the less likely he was to arise. Each tribe had their own origins, but they were ultimately descendents 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 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 of his kind. 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 threw out 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. 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 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 dark arm. And Pietro merely looked at his woman in disinterest, not caring to take what was offered. Licking her lips, Theophania muttered darkly, "You insult me, Pietro. Drink. My children found her special 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 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 that was 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 disgust. "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. Matter-of-factly, he asked, "Can she be controlled?" "Nay, but I left the woman to Servaes. He is loyal. He will kill her if he does not 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 do not 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 him -- 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." "He is then 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 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 as such," 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 the old coffin that awaited him. Jirí had heard the cries of Hathor’s heart, waking him whilst he slept. He could feel 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.

**** London

Hathor lifted her weary head up from the table. Black circles smudged the bottom of 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 gently rustling trees. She watched the play of light, trying to convince herself that 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 her relief. "Georgie!" Hathor gasped. "What are you doing back so soon?" Georgia eyed her niece, as she placed her bags on the floor. Hathor’s blue eyes were sunken and puffy. Her nose was red. Instantly, she knew the girl had been crying. Turning to close the door, the old woman said wryly, "It’s good to see you too, dear." "I’m sorry," Hathor said, going to her aunt to give her a hug. "How was your trip? Is everyone all right?" "Ah, Doris came back early, couldn’t stand to be away from Joseph. The illness seems to be playing harder on her than him." Georgia watched as Hathor lifted her bags for her. "Just leave them, dear. Come. Let us go have a cup of coffee. Joseph drinks nothing but tea." Hathor laughed. In that preference she and her aunt were the same. Sniffing, she nodded, following to the kitchen. Already, she had a mug on the table. As Georgia sat, she got her a cup. "So what is the matter?" Georgia asked, as Hathor sat down. "You look as if you’ve cried your eyes out of your head." At the words, Hathor’s eyes began to tear again. She dashed at the moisture in frustration. "Is it as bad as all that?" Georgia inquired softly. She reached her old, weathered hands across the table to touch her niece. Holding the young palms in her own, she asked, "Servaes?"


"Yes." Hathor sniffed, fighting the urge to cry harder. "He left me." "I see," Georgia answered. But she could tell there was more to it than that. Patiently she waited. "I love him," Hathor blurted. "And we can’t be together -- ever." "Is he married?" "I wish he were," Hathor moaned. "I could handle it if he were married." "I see." Georgia sighed, leaning back in her chair. "Is he a vampire then?" "What?" Hathor shot in amazement. "How … I mean --" "Why would an old woman like me believe in such a thing?" Georgia broke in. She smiled knowingly. "Because I have never had proof that such does not exist. It is foolish to believe that we are the only creatures God has made. And I do know that such phenomena can occur. My mother was very sensitive to such things. She spoke often with the dead. I even saw her a few times after she died." "But, you never said --" "What would I say about it? It was as natural as a tree growing or a bird flying. Besides, people do not want to hear of such things these days. They like to believe that they are it. Science and technology is what comforts them." Georgia’s eyes shone bright with understanding. "So, if you say he is a vampire, than he is one." "He is," Hathor answered, amazed that her aunt would accept so easily. She had been so sure the older woman would have had her committed for such conversation. "I know he is. And I have seen others. They wanted me dead, and he saved me." If Georgia was shocked she never showed it. "All right, now that we have established what he is, tell me why you can’t be with him." "He’s a vampire," Hathor stated, as if those single words could describe everything she felt. "He feeds on humans, drinks our blood. But it’s not just that. There is loneliness in him so extreme it pains me to feel it. This is crazy." "Is there a way for him to become human again?" Hathor shook her head. "I would have to become like him. I would have to give up everything." "And?" the old woman prompted, as she watched the young girl’s agony. "You don’t want to?" "I want to, but…." Hathor’s eyes shone bright with confusion. "You remember that man Franklin, with the kiddy porn that disappeared? Well, that was Servaes. He killed that man and took the child back to her mother. I danced with him that same night in the garden. He told me he had Franklin, a bad man, for supper. I thought it was a strange vampire joke to make me laugh. But then, the next day at the parlor … and there are others, so many others. He showed them to me, he let me see what he had done. The first night I saw him he had a woman on stage that had drowned her five children and blamed it on a maid." "What, Mrs. Lerrington? That was just on the news. They said she killed herself because she went crazy


after losing her children. They found her body in the Thames." Georgia shook her head. "You mean she killed her poor babes?" Hathor gulped and nodded. She placed a balled fist before her lips to keep from crying. The sound of the children’s tears still echoed in her head--haunting her. "Then I say she got what she deserved. Good for him," Georgia announced. "Go to him if you love him. Be with him." "But the killings, the blood!" Hathor exclaimed, apprehensive. "God save us from the likes of Franklin and that woman. And maybe he is. Did you ever think of that? There is purpose in your love for Servaes. God does not create love without purpose. There is purpose in everything, though we might not see it. Go to him. Go to Servaes. And if he can’t join you, join him. Maybe your purpose is to end his loneliness. Maybe that is the role God has chosen for you. His heart has to be good if you love it. And I know yours is." Georgia stood slowly, crossing over to the window. Her motions were strained as she rubbed her hands together. When Hathor didn’t speak, she whispered, "Man’s punishments are not always fair when it comes to crimes. The bad seeds are not always convicted. And, the richer the man, the better his chances are of getting off. Maybe this is God’s way of evening the odds." "But he has already left me. He didn’t come back last night, and he left me a note telling me not to follow him. He said to forget him, that he was dead to me." Hathor’s tears again trailed over her cheeks like sparkling diamonds. "Vampire or human, a man is a man. And men have pride aplenty. My guess is that he saw your reaction to his life and --" "You’re right, Georgie," Hathor broke in, smiling timidly for the first time in days. Hope glistened in her tears. "But how do I find him? He won’t be at the club again. I know he left there." "Go to the areas he is most likely to be. Call to him with your heart. He will hear it and come to you." Georgia smiled, praying she was right. It was a dangerous thing her niece would do. But there was danger in everything worth having. Georgia could see the love Hathor had for her vampire lover. "What time is it?" Hathor questioned, ready to run out the door in search for Servaes. "Not even noon. Now, why don’t you go clean yourself up? You don’t want to go to him looking like you’ve just come from a funeral." "Yes, you’re right," Hathor babbled in distraction. Her mind raced with plans, ideas, what she would say to him when she saw him -- if she saw him. I must find him! Hathor thought, as she ran from the kitchen. Her heart overflowed with joy. Georgia was right. The only thing that mattered was their love. I will find him. It is meant to be. I love him. And somewhere deep inside I know he loves me, too.

****


Servaes opened his dark eyes to stare grimly at the top of his coffin. His body didn’t move. He could feel the earliness of the day, knowing that he had just laid down to his rest. Again, the sound that disturbed him whispered over his prone body. Servaes, it called in a sweet voice that only brought him torture. The whispers wouldn’t stop, until he didn’t know if she called to him or his memories haunted him. Servaes. Servaes. Servaes. He knew Hathor waited for him. He watched her all night on her balcony -- searching for him. He hadn’t gone to her, even when she leaned over the railing, feeling his nearness. She called to him, reached out into the darkness for him. He held back, swearing to himself that this was the last time he would go to her, promising his body that he would no longer feel anything for her. His body cursed him for a liar, for every fiber in his being ached to possess her again. The smell of her was branded on his skin, the taste of her swirled like a healing draught in his blood. Every time he thought to weaken and fly into her willing arms, he held back, forcing the memory of her abhorrence forth. She didn’t want what he was, and it wouldn’t be fair for him to force it on her. She deserved a life with a family and children and grandchildren. These were things he would never give her. Servaes would have left London to run away from her, but stayed only so he could convince Jirí she was harmless. Once he secured his maker’s word that Hathor would be safe, he would go. Paris, he thought, back to my homeland to see how it has changed. Mayhap to the chateau I once owned, now falling to ruin. Mayhap there I will be able to purge myself of the life we will never have. Closing his eyes and his heart, he used all his power to block out the sound of her call. The sound grew faint, until it disappeared to leave him in silence, Servaes, Servaes, come back, no, Servaes….

Chapter Seventeen

The fall wind turned bitter and cold, stinging across the quiet London back streets. Hathor ran past the blur of pavement and signs, lampposts, and the cloudy sparkles of moonlight that occasionally peeked in on the dark byways. She clutched her long jacket over her pounding heart, willing her feet onward. Her breath came out in white puffs of air, causing her lips to chap.


She ignored the breathless pain in her lungs as they gasped for air. Her eyes darted to the alleyways and side paths, looking for any creature that might be of the world of the undead. The paths were eerily empty. It was as if the entire city slept. "Come on, where are you?" Hathor whispered, terribly out of breath. She was finally forced to slow to a walk. Pressing at the stitch in her side, she looked around, knowing the Vampire Club to be close. She hadn’t wanted to go there, knowing what had happened last time, but she was getting desperate. In her heart she truly believed that, if she were in trouble, Servaes would again come save her. As she once more began to walk, she didn’t notice the eyes that gathered from darkened shadows to watch her undetected. The onlookers hid themselves from her, blending with the walls, the lampposts, the side streets and alleys. Cloaked in the darkness, for they were of the darkness. The vampires watched her desperate search. They were curious about her intent, fearful of the resistance she had to them, and confused as to why she came back. Jirí told them not to worry about her, that he went to speak with the council and that Servaes was in charge of keeping her away. But they all saw Servaes as he passed by the club to empty his chamber of most of his belongings. He was preparing to leave them, and the girl was still alive. She was again roaming too close to their homes. "We should kidnap her," Lamar said callously. He came stealthily from the darkness to stand by Ginger. His gaze blackened with hate. "We should weaken her and wait for Jirí." "We should kill her," Ginger hissed, her eyes gleaming red. Her small nose wrinkled as she sniffed the air. "Servaes does not watch her. We have a right to defend our homes, our kind!" "She is marked by Servaes," Vincent spoke softly, coming to join them. He watched Hathor as she turned down a side alley. When she was from view, they stepped from the darkness and walked to follow behind her. Several others, hidden, came out to follow the trio. "This time there can be no mistake. You can smell him on her skin, in her blood. He has claimed her for himself. If we are to kill her, we will openly defy Servaes. If we are to kill her, we do it together this time. Each of us will have her blood on our tongues. The council will not punish us all for the life of one human who should have already been dead." "Servaes is no one. He does not matter," Ginger vehemently seethed. "He is one of the old. Do not disregard that. What if he is angered?" Lamar whispered. "What if he comes to avenge her?" "Avenge the death of a blood being?" Ginger laughed, amused greatly by the very idea. "Tell me, Lamar, as a human would you avenge a chicken because it was overcooked by your chef?" Lamar growled in outrage. Vincent guffawed heartily, a mocking and cold sound made more so by the fact that it was not he who was being ridiculed. Turning their attention back to the human, they watched as Hathor froze. Hearing the noise, she turned her head to where they stood. The vampires laughed harder as her fearful gaze passed over them. She visibly trembled and stumbled away. The sound of their pitiless voices echoed over the streets in a chorus of misfortune. Hathor spun around in circles, penetrating the darkness with her eyes, unable to see them, only able to hear the laughter. "Shall we then?" Ginger inquired with a cocky tilt of her head.


"Oh, let us," Vincent murmured, relishing his demonic thoughts. A nasty grin found his lips, as he urged, "Come, Lamar. I have tasted this one. You will enjoy her." Lamar glared, still hurt by Ginger’s insult. But as the other two materialized before the frightened woman, he too let himself be seen. They stalked forward, the suddenness of their heavy footfall catching her attention. Hathor gasped. Her head twitched back to them with a start. She watched the three very familiar figures manifest from nothing. Her heart pounded wildly. She saw the dead look in their black gazes. Spinning, she tried to run but skidded to a stop as she saw more vampires gathering around her from the other side. Their bodies materialized out of darkened corners, leapt down from the rooftops, and even appeared to grow up from the dampened streets until she was surrounded by a mob of them. Clutching her jacket to her breasts, her heart screamed out for Servaes. She had expected them to come for her if Servaes didn’t. She hadn’t expected there to be so many of them. Vincent, Lamar, and Ginger drew closer. Hathor’s bottom lip began to tremble in mind-numbing fear. She shook her head. Vincent smiled at her, his eyes shining with a false fondness. Hathor grabbed her neck where he had bit her. His grin widened, spreading like the plague over his demented features. Slowly, he nodded his head and flashed his spiked teeth. "Go away," she whispered at last, shaking from head to toe. "Leave me be. I want nothing to do with you." "It is you who can’t leave us!" Ginger pouted like a spoiled child. Her British accent made her words very distinct and precise. "And here we thought you wanted to play with us again." "I’m looking for Servaes," Hathor stated, as bravely as she could manage. She jutted her chin into the night air. Sniffing back her frightened tears, she declared, "I belong to him. Leave me be. Or else you will bring his wrath upon you." "Oh, we can smell how you belong to him," Ginger spat. Hathor froze, refusing to scream as the vampiress came near her face. Ginger’s tongue flicked out, licking Hathor’s neck, over her ear to the side of the temple. Hathor shivered in disgust. Whispering, Ginger hissed, "I can taste him on your skin. Tell me, how much of you has he touched?" Ginger growled, circling around Hathor to tug off her jacket with a mighty jerk. The sleeves pinned her arms to her sides as the vampiress pulled. She eyed the mortal woman’s gray T-shirt, licking the tips of her fangs thoughtfully. "I can tell," Lamar said. He instantly was on his knees, pushing his nose to Hathor’s thighs covered by denim jeans. Her jacket fell to the ground, and her arms were freed. Hathor swatted desperately at his head, trying to push his sniffing nose out from between her legs. Ginger grabbed her arms from behind, holding her still. Lamar laughed. The vibration of it hit against her hip. "He was definitely here. I smell him on your cunt." "And here," Vincent called, lifting her shirt up and pressing his nose into the valley of her warm breasts. She felt his tongue flick along her cleavage. She jerked back. Ginger held her tightly, her fingers digging


into her flesh until bruises formed beneath her strong palms. "I’ll bet he’s been everywhere," Ginger stated, as if it were an epiphany. Her hand traveled over Hathor’s backside to grasp it firmly. "Leave me alone!" Hathor ordered with a stern shake of her immobile body. She tried to hide her terror and failed. Her voice squeaked horribly, as she demanded, "Get your hands off of me!" "Or what?" Ginger asked, tauntingly. "Oh, Gin. I believe she thinks herself too good for the likes of us," pouted Vincent. "Our blood isn’t old enough for her." "Is that it?" Lamar questioned. "Well maybe it is because you haven’t tasted it." "And she won’t either." Ginger laughed. "Oh, but we’ll taste you," Lamar said, nodding his head slowly. His hand reached up to brush her cheek. Hathor jerked her face from him. Ginger pressed the mortal woman’s arms ever more tightly to her sides so she couldn’t move. There were too many of them to fight or run from. Even if Hathor could shake Lamar from her legs and Vincent from her chest, she would never be able to run through the gathered crowd. She could still sense the other vampires behind her, watching the interplay quietly with avid interest. None there cared to save her. Their dark void of emotion grew around her--empty and sinister. "And," Vincent added, "this time it won’t be gentle. This time, you’re going to feel it." Instantly, all three lunged forward. Hathor screamed, fighting off her attackers. She might as well have been fighting a steel vice, for all her humanly punches and kicks affected the vampires. The vampires raised her above the ground as they drank. Ginger locked her teeth on Hathor’s mortal throat. Vincent’s mouth dove for her breasts. His teeth pierced through her T-shirt to drain blood directly from her chest, sinking near her heart with a white heat, latching so she couldn’t buck him off. Lamar lunged for her thigh, lifting her artery up to his mouth rather than kneeling. He bit into the tender flesh of her leg, throwing the limb over his shoulder. Still the vampires around them only watched. Hathor felt the piercing greediness of their onslaught like a knife tearing through her body. The more she fought them, the more their biting hurt and the deeper their embrace became. She could feel them sucking the energy from her, dazing her with the suddenness of it. Hathor kicked and pulled to no avail. They levitated her higher into the chilled night air. "Halt! Release her!" Hathor barely heard the harsh command. Her breath came out in heavy pants. The teeth slackened from her body, leaving her weak. Slowly, she was lowered to the ground. Her head lulled on her shoulders. Her body ached bitterly, throbbing sharply where they stung her. As her feet hit the solid earth, her tormentors released her. Her knees buckled. She collapsed into a heap. For a moment, all were silent as she tried to find her strength. Breathlessly, she stared at the cold pavement. A freezing wind thrashed about her shoulders, chilling her thinned blood to the core. Her limbs


shook unsteadily. Then she felt something. A small tug at her body -- a pull of the familiar. Servaes! she thought, whipping her head up. Her eyes darted around. The crowd of vampires was departing, fleeing into the night, disappearing as stealthy as they came. Ginger, Vincent, and Lamar stood defiantly above her, blocking her view. "We want her dead!" Ginger spat. "She is a risk to all of us!" "We didn’t seek her out, she came to us!" yelled Vincent defensively. Between a stiff pair of legs she saw the one they tried to defy step forward. She couldn’t see his face, but as soon as he spoke, she knew the voice. It gave her chills with its deadliness. "You were ordered to leave her be," Jirí stated in his dispassionate tone. He stopped walking. "I have spoken with the council. They are not happy. I am ordered to bring her to them." "Why should they get her?" Lamar voiced with mock bravado. "We found her." "You lie," Ginger interjected, pushing past Lamar to boldly face Jirí. "Everyone knows there is no council. You just want her for yourself! What are you up to? If you want her, you’ll tell us what it is you plan." Jirí’s laughter came soft and low as he finally stepped into Hathor’s view. His eyes glistened eerily, but his manner was unconcerned, bored. He eyed Ginger impassively before glancing down at the prone woman on the dirty ground. Hathor’s cheek fell weakly to the earth, watching the dark intruder from in-between Ginger’s unmoving legs. Her breathing slowed. Her body weakened. Her head throbbed painfully, and her eyes stung with the violent need to cry. "Wouldst you like me to take you before the council so you can ask them?" Jirí questioned, obviously amused by the notion. "Come, Lamar. There are others about tonight. I can smell a family sitting down to dinner." Vincent jumped up from the street, disappearing into the night sky. Lamar was soon after him. Hathor stared into the heavens, seeing the heels of their feet before they disappeared. Ginger leaned over, glaring at her. Bitterly, she muttered, "You’ll wish we finished what we started here once the elders get hold of you." Hathor would have gasped if she could have managed it. Ginger turned, disappearing with a flash down the alleyway. Again the night was left silent. When Jirí didn’t move, she rolled her head to the side to look at him. His arms were crossed as he studied her intently. His eyes flashed green. She knew he was reading her, or at least trying. She wondered how much he saw. "Everything," Jirí whispered. He came up next to her within the span of a blink. "I see everything." "But," Hathor tried to speak. Jirí interrupted her by lifting her into his arms. He carried her like she was a feather pillow, and he began to speed through the air. Lights began to blur as they passed over streets


and buildings. She trembled, frightened by his emotionless face. "Are you going to kill me?" Jirí glanced at her wan expression, giving away nothing as he continued to race through the night. He could feel her weakened state. Her attackers had almost been successful. He almost let them have their success. Unaffected by her tearful expression, he whispered, "Mayhap." "But," Hathor began in protest. Jirí frowned in annoyance. Lifting his hand across her face, he said nebulously, "Sleep." Hathor’s eyes closed with an immediate, all consuming darkness. Jirí lifted her over his shoulder, never slowing as he continued on through the night.

**** Servaes stepped over the paved streets. Lifting his nose to the air, he sniffed deeply. He could smell the faint traces of Hathor’s skin, her blood. A nerve twitched in his gut. The shriek of her echoing cry still lingered fearfully in his head. Stupid mortal! Servaes fumed. His senses frantically searched for a palpable trace of her. He couldn’t find one. I told you to leave it be! Why did you come back? Sniffing, he fell to the ground. The scent of her blood was stronger on the pavement, though he saw none of it. Then, his eyes growing black, he wrinkled his nose in disgust. Flying to his feet, he growled, "Ginger." With an immortal growl and a fierce fire starting in his limbs, he shot out over the night. He flew over alleyways, by churches and graveyard. He flew by palaces and bridges, trying to regain the scent of Ginger. He couldn’t find her in the large city. Then, as dawn crept closer, he returned to the Vampire Club knowing that the others would gather near there. Making his way through the passageway, he entered the club. It was free of humans, except for the bartender who mopped puddles of blood from the floor. Without Servaes to temper the young vampire’s ways, there had been a slaughter of human flesh. Blood was spattered everywhere in dotting trails across the walls and tables -- even the bartender’s clothing. Seeing Vincent sitting on the edge of the stage, Servaes felt his eyes fill with loathing. His fangs grew longer, deadlier in his anger. He was ready for battle. Vincent lifted his head, smiling as he motioned for Ginger and Lamar. They came from behind the stage. Vincent floated to his feet to be at the same level as his friends. Ginger and Lamar came beside him. "What have you done with her?" Servaes growled, his voice carrying the dark trace of a demon. It boomed over the empty room. The bartender glanced up at the sound, dropped his mop, and hurried out the front passageway. "Who?" Ginger shot with a cocky smirk. The three vampires dropped down from the stage to the main floor. They were still injured at having their fun stopped by Jirí. Smiling, they decided playing with Servaes would be just as entertaining.


"I can smell her on your foul breath," Servaes bellowed. His fingers tightened into fists as he charged forward. He grabbed Ginger about the throat and pushed her into the air, flying up into a stone wall. Growling viciously, he hollered, "Where is she?" Ginger laughed, despite the pain in her throat. She didn’t fight back, knowing she never had a chance against his strength. "We all had a taste of her, Servaes. Her blood was sweet, her body even sweeter. It wasn’t fair of you to keep her all to yourself like that." "What have you done with her?" he yelled, hiding his desperation behind his mask of hatred. He knew the games these vampires played. He knew about the impalements, the stakings, the torture devices. A howl, horrifying and deadly, escaped his lips as he leaned forward. His nose pressed into Ginger. His eyes flashed as his fingernails bit into her skin. As Ginger’s blood trailed down her neck, Servaes smelled Hathor in it. "Where are you going?" Ginger yelled. "Cowards!" Servaes dropped the vampiress to the ground, whirling in outrage to see Lamar’s blurred body fleeing into the tunnels below. The old vampire’s red eyes and snarled lips focused on Vincent. His head twitched as he caught the scent of her on him also. "Tell me," Servaes commanded with a yell. "You’ve nothing to worry about, friend. The council has decided they want her. Jirí has taken her away to them. And there she will be killed." Vincent sensed the oncoming threat of dawn. He too disappeared into the tunnels to seek his bed. His mocking laughter could be heard ringing behind him. "You had better find your grave, too," Ginger growled. She wanted to attack him, kill him. Her eyes glared jealously as she looked at him. But she was no fool. Servaes was too old, too powerful. Alone, she couldn’t win against him. "Where did Jirí take her?" he bullied, taking a threatening step forward. "I don’t know," she spat. Then, with a flash, she too fled from the rising sun. Servaes wanted to go find Hathor. Every fiber in his being begged him to look for her. He could feel his heart breaking into a million pieces, as hers had that night they shared in her bedroom. If she were dead, then so was the last sliver of his humanity. He knew that if the council truly ordered Hathor killed or brought to them, Jirí would do as it was decreed. Honor and a sense of duty were traces of Jirí’s human life that the vampire couldn’t be rid of. With a snarl, Servaes began heading for the club door. Seeing the bartender’s pale face, he stopped. "The sun, my lord," the man said, pointing behind him. Servaes growled viciously at him, helpless against the dawn. His fingers slashed though the air like brandished claws. His rage welled up in his chest, released with an excruciating yell. The bartender trembled, pulling away from the angry creature. Servaes felt the approaching sun and was forced to turn around. He viciously tore through the underground tunnels to his coffin. As the sun barely poked the horizon, he angrily shut himself inside his


dreary tomb.

**** Hathor’s eyes shot open in a panic. She felt the walls of a coffin closing in on her. The cold fingers wrapped over her body felt oddly familiar to her blood, but she knew that it was not Servaes that held her. She struggled violently against the hands, sensing more than seeing Jirí’s closed eyes in repose. Jirí’s gaze flashed open in annoyance to glare at her from their green-flecked depths. A low growl came from his lips. He grasped at her tightly. "Why have you put me here?" she said, trying to sound brave and failing. "What better prison, m’lady?" he asked easily, as if nothing at all mattered to him. The glittering lessened in his gaze, but his grip held tight. "What better shackles than these dead hands?" "Let me go!" Jirí chuckled. The shaking movement of his gaiety shook all the way down his body, vibrating through her. She could feel the cold grave of him soaking into her skin. It radiated from his handsome body. Had Servaes’ touch been so unfeeling, so deadly chilled? "I admire your bravery. You will need it," he said truthfully. His eyes began to close. "Now sleep. The day is young, and we have no place to be but here." "Where are you taking me? What will you do with me?" Her voice shook. Jirí let loose an audible sigh, his eyes opening up to stare at her. For a long moment he studied her, seeing her face clearly in the darkness. He could smell Servaes’ possession of her, just like the others. And, with no little amazement, he could read what they had done together in her bedchamber, saw every detail. "I know who you are, Jirí," she said at last. "I know what you did to him. I saw." "You mean he told you," Jirí mused. "No. I mean I saw it, you heartless bastard," she spat. "I saw you kill him. I saw everything!" "Oh, in that you are mistaken, m’lady," Jirí said quietly. His words became soft, as he leaned forward to whisper into her ear. "The heart is the one thing I have that works." He took her hand and placed it over his chest. She could feel the steady beat beneath her fingers. Hathor stiffened at the intimate revealing. Gasping, she tried to pull away. With a dark chuckle, he wouldn’t let her. "I saw you kill him," she repeated boldly. Again, she tried to jerk her hand away. Again, he wouldn’t let her go. "You made him what he is, Jirí. I want you to turn him back! I want you to make him human!" At that declaration, Jirí chuckled merrily. He didn’t let go of her hand, his grave-cold fingers soaking in


some of her mortal warmth. He could smell the alluring scent of her blood, sweet and nearly pure. He had known her purity that first night he kissed her, just as now he could tell it was gone, taken by Servaes. "I gave him a new life," Jirí stated, unashamed. "But I cannot give the old one back to him. Are you so sure he wouldst want his mortality back? Do you think to know him better than I, his father? I made him. He is my son, my benighted child. After everything he has seen, after how long he has lived, do you think he wouldst give it up for you? Are you sure that what you seek is not purely done in selfishness?" "Then make me like him," she ordered. She angled her neck to his mouth, pressing it forward to his whispering lips. She hated his words. She hated him for making her hear them. Demanding loudly, she said, "Make me like you. Change me as you did him. Do it!" "Nay, m’lady," Jirí’s voice was cold with finality. "I will not wrong him again. Your changing will not be my doing." Hathor drew back. She narrowed her eyes, trying to see his face in the darkness. She couldn’t. Angrily, she pulled her fist away from his heart to strike him. He grabbed her back easily. She struggled once more to no avail, trying to shake free as she screamed, "But I saw you. You plotted against him, putting him on the boat to die. I saw you on the docks, cocky and sure of yourself. You took him without giving him a chance. And now you will turn me. I demand that you do so!" Suddenly, a cold whisper from the past echoed around them, Hathor, Hathor, Don’t leave me. They both recognized it as long ago cry of a sick man in the belly of a sea-going ship. Jirí’s self-assurance wavered at the sound. Hathor’s wry look glared defiantly at him. "It was you he called for," Jirí stated in wonderment. "But how? In another life mayhap?" "No, in this one." Hathor relaxed, no longer fighting against him. It was a battle she couldn’t win. "Don’t ask me how. But I was there less than a week ago. I fell in love with the human he was. I was there the night you tricked him into the king’s mistress’ quarters. I was there on the boat and the American docks. I saw everything, Jirí." Jirí closed his eyes, thinking back with the help of the fresh memories in her head. Opening them, he stated, "I saw you in the king’s garden. I looked right at you. I never suspected. Methought you were a foolishly smitten noblewoman." "So will you bring me to him?" she asked, cautiously. "Please." "No," he answered. "I will not bring you to him. But you just might see him again. I have a feeling he will come for you." "Are you going to hurt him?" Jirí studied her for a long moment, feeling her heart beat frantically in her chest. He saw the tears lining her eyes. Not tears for herself, but selfless tears for the vampire she loved. He could feel the sweetness of the emotion flowing through every drop of her being. The emotion called to Servaes in anguish, its true purity a rare thing in humans. Lifting his hand, Jirí passed his fingers slowly over her eyes. Murmuring softly, he ordered, "Sleep."


Hathor’s head fell limp. Her lips parted in even breath, her mind dark with dreamless slumber. Jirí watched her for a moment, wondering at the emotion inside his blood. It was respect for her, of that he was sure. But, beyond his admiration, there was more--jealousy, longing, despair. Jirí closed his eyes, not finding his rest as easily as she. The renewed image of the docks, seen through her eyes, haunted him. He had wronged Servaes all those centuries ago. He had been different then, a lord who was used to taking what he wanted, and this woman before him truly loved his benighted son. But could he help them? Could he risk defying the council for them? Could he deny every loyalty he had? Mournfully, Jirí shook his head and closed his eyes. No matter how much he wished it, no matter his regrets, he knew he couldn’t. The council’s bidding would be done.

Chapter Eighteen

Jirí awoke Hathor at dusk. He leaned over her face, stroking her cheek lightly as he stared at her. Then, as her eyes fluttered open, he pulled her roughly by the arm. She flew up into the air from the coffin to her feet in surprise. Her head swam dizzily as she glanced around a fancy hotel suite. Her knees buckled only to be caught up by Jirí’s persistence. She hardly had time to notice the lavish furniture or the full-sized stocked bar, as the old vampire whisked her around to face him. His hand stayed possessively firm on her arm. "Glad to see you awake, m’lady," he smirked. He studied her intently, his cold gaze traveling over her slender form, from her wide sleep-adjusting eyes to the trembling of her legs barely able to support her weight. His hunger gnawed at his stomach, demanding he eat. He ignored it for the moment. "I can do it myself," she grumped. She tried to snatch her arm away. He let her go. She stumbled before righting herself. Jirí chuckled. "Did you rest?" he asked at length. "You know I did. You keep making me pass out." Hathor realized he was toying with her. She saw the amusement in his features as he watched her. Jirí’s dark laughter grew louder. It strung across the room, filling it. He raised his hand. She grimaced. "Do I have to tell you to stay here, m’lady? Or do you wish to be bound?" he inquired smoothly. He lowered his hand to the side before walking away from her. "I should hate to leave you tied to the bed whilst I am away."


"Where are you going?" she questioned nervously. When his eyebrow rose slightly in amusement, she hastened, "I’ll be fine here." "I could force you back to sleep," he offered. When he smiled at her, his face lit with a heartrending handsomeness. Its charm was lost on Hathor. She thought only of Servaes. "If you think you might be tempted to run --" "No, I’ll stay here," Hathor broke in. She knew it would be pointless for her to try and hide. Her only hope was that Servaes would sense her first and come rescue her. "Yea, m’lady," Jirí whispered, convinced that she wouldn’t endeavor to escape. "It wouldst be very pointless for you to try." Hathor blushed but attempted to look peeved for his constant invasion into her thoughts. Throwing back his head, Jirí laughed heartily. Delightedly, he allowed, "I have been called worse." The vampire strolled to the hotel’s balcony, a smile lining his mysterious lips. His hands threaded leisurely behind his back, and he motioned his head for the door to slide open. The door obeyed, and the cool night breeze ruffled Jirí’s clothing. Spinning deliberately on his heels, he moved to look at her once more. "Order some food if you like. But tell no one --" Jirí began. "Who would believe me, m’lord?" Hathor quipped, a wry span to her countenance. "The bellhop? Should I tell him that I am kidnapped by vampires and ask him to wait here so that he can defend my honor against you? And if you think me foolish enough to believe I could run and hide from all of you, you can’t read minds very well. Tell me, where should I go? A church? I am sure it would do no good." "Quite true," he answered, unconcerned. Though, he did hide a smile at her quick sarcastic wit. For a moment, Hathor saw his eyes soften. She realized suddenly that he was giving her a small chance. He was leaving her alone to see if Servaes would come and get her. Jirí’s mouth curled slightly as she stared at him. Hathor gulped at the unexpected kindness and looked to the floor in confusion. Quietly, Jirí stated, "I will be back. Do what you will, but do not leave this room." "Why…" Hathor nodded. But when she glanced up to look at him, he was gone. Weakly, she finished, "…would you help me?" With a heavy sigh, she turned to look around the mauve colored suite. The beauty of the rich carpets and high ceilings was lost on her. Going to the window, she could see the Thames, a long bridge, the expanse of London. She knew that out there on the city streets were millions of people with no idea what really went on in the city at night. She used to be one of them, and part of her wished she could be so again. "But then I wouldn’t have Servaes," she mumbled to herself. Despite her desperate state, she felt a smile tug at her heart. If she never saw him again, that one night with him would have been worth it. Everything -- the journey into the past, the pain of death, the pain of losing him -- would be worth it. For that memory would be with her. "You love him."


Hathor stiffened before whirling to the side. The night breeze clung to her skin, whipping at her stained T-shirt. Her heart pounded fearfully, though she knew she should have been getting used to such quick intrusions into her solitude. It seemed the entire vampire race had forgotten how to knock. Before her, hidden by the folds of a dark green cloak, stood a creature -- one she was sure never to have met. Immediately, she stumbled back from him, recoiling from the power he had over her. She couldn’t see his face beneath the hood of his cloak as it fell forward, but she could feel him watching her, reading her. He was old -- older than Servaes, perhaps even older than Jirí. She could sense it. "Yea, child," the creature mumbled. His voice cracked wearily as if he hardly used it, the accent was old and worn. A thin hand reached forward, the skin sunken to show the structure of the creature’s bones. An old ring graced the pinkie of his finger, glittering with a beautiful emerald, slipping around from the lack of cushioning skin. He compelled Hathor to take his hand in hers. She did, unable to stop herself, though she tried. Slowly, the being pulled her forward and she could feel him studying her, smelling her. "I am older than both." "How is it you and Jirí can read me when no one else can?" she asked. Trembling, her mind was her own, but her body was under his control. She continued, "Who are you? What do you want?" The pale hand held firmly to hers, though the grasp of it was light. He lifted his other arm to stroke his fingers over her soft cheek. They were like an ice cube to her trembling skin. As he leaned forward, Hathor perceived a glimpse of tinted orbs set deep within the sockets of his sunken eyes. Moonlight filtered briefly over the face of a skeleton with sunken flesh. She knew that, like all of the vampires, he would be handsome once his old face filled with life. But there was something else to him. The creature was more self-possessed than the others were. As if he held more power than they did. "Hope," he answered darkly, at last. "I desire hope." "Hope?" she questioned, utterly confused, completely enthralled. The enigmatic stranger pulled her into his chest with his will. His arm stretched out, holding her still like the beginning of an intimate dance. A steady, thin hand wound about her waist, the other pulled to the side. The long folds of his cloak wrapped around her, enveloping her in a sensual caress until she could feel the bony length of him pressed into her. She could smell the must of grave on him, the potent fragrance of decay and aged death. She perceived the muscles of his chest, recessed ever so slightly beneath his tunic shirt. His heartbeat was weak. His head leaned down to brush over her neck with thin, pulled lips. Lightly, he whispered, "Forgive me, child. Forgive me. I must drink." Hathor felt his mouth lowering down to her skin, devoid of warm breath. She felt the brush of fangs. Her mind screamed at him to stop, but her mouth couldn’t move. Her limbs climbed up to encircle his neck, holding still once she returned the skeletal embrace, unable to fight him, almost feeling eager. His teeth pierced her flesh. She could feel them inside of her, but his biting kiss didn’t hurt as the others had. There was pleasure in it, pure, mind-reeling satisfaction. Her eyes closed in her head as she moaned lightly. Her weakened body collapsed completely against him, complacent to his will. The vampire drank deeply from her, sating his hunger, reclaiming much of his flesh at the taste of her. Then, pulling away, he studied her still face along his shoulder. She had fallen asleep in his arms. His eyes closed, his revived chin resting near her temple. He held her in his cloaked arms. Shaking his head, he murmured into her hair, "Forgive me, child. Forgive me."


**** Servaes searched through the night for his old friend. Jirí’s scent couldn’t be detected on the wind, but Servaes knew it was quite possible that he was already gone. If Jirí chose to disappear, there would be no way of finding him. He fed once at dusk, because he had to. It was a woman who slipped drugs to school children, getting them hooked young before they knew what they were doing. The awful taste of humanity stung his tongue. He hated it. The one thing of worth that he found in all his years was Hathor. He wouldn’t take that one blessing away from the human world. He wouldn’t change the one thing decent he’d found in his eternal hell, no matter how much he wanted to be with her -- that was, if he was ever given the chance to see her again. He opened his heart and his mind, trying to listen for her. He couldn’t detect her. With hope in his chest, he went to Kennington House, to the gardens. He walked along the path at a human’s pace, reaching out with his feelings for her. She was not there. But someone else was. "Are you looking for Hathor?" Servaes turned. The voice was old, but not his old -- human old. His eyes met with the kind eyes of an elderly woman. She gave him a compassionate smile, unafraid. Her sad eyes blinked heavily. "You are Servaes, are you not?" the woman inquired. She hugged a pink silk robe around her waist. On her feet were fluffy pink slippers. "I saw you walking around. I hoped it was Hathor." "Then she is not here?" he asked politely. "No," the woman said. "She went looking for you. I had hoped she found you." "Me? How do you know it is I she was searching for?" "You’re Servaes are you not? Her vampire?" the woman questioned. Her eyes traveled over his old clothing meaningfully. Servaes nodded, surprised by the woman’s easy acceptance. "I knew you were. I could tell the minute I looked at you." As Servaes studied her, he could see faint traces of Hathor in the woman’s features. Smiling kindly, he said, "You must be her aunt, Georgie. She has told me of you." "Come inside, boy." The old woman inclined her head, turning around on the pathway. She began to walk, not stopping to see if he listened. Servaes chuckled, amused at having been called like a child. He easily glided to her, taking up her arm. He could sense the pain in her movements. "Allow me," he said. "Oh!" Georgia gasped as Servaes flitted across the lawn to deposit her on the front step of her house. She shook her head in wonder, trying to catch her breath. Frowning a bit, she said, "You young people, always in a hurry."


"I am older than you." Servaes chuckled wryly in amusement. "Oh, yeah?" Georgia returned airily. Wiggling a creased finger, she answered, "Talk to me when you have wrinkles, vampire. You may have lived many years, but you are still a kid compared to me. Now, come in out of the dark night. I don’t suppose you can catch your death, but I sure can." Servaes followed her easily inside. He lifted his hand, shutting the door without touching it. Georgia shook her head with a sigh. "I was praying you were Hathor. I’ve been worried about her. Have you seen her?" Georgia asked hopefully. When she saw the look on his pale face, she frowned. "No, I suppose not. Tell me, do you know? Has something happened?" "Mayhap. I believe one of my kind has taken her," Servaes said. Georgia nodded, appreciating the candid honesty. She patted her hands nervously together. Bluntly, she questioned, "Do you love her?" Servaes studied the woman carefully. He didn’t know how to answer. "You do. I can feel it in you," she stated, her eyes flashing with secrets. "Well, I’d offer you some coffee, but I don’t think you’d like it." Servaes nodded. He continued to stare at her, fixed between amazement and awe. Georgia ignored his rude silence. "Hathor did say you were a handsome boy," Georgia admitted in a matter-of-fact tone. "I see she was right. You’ll find her, won’t you? You’ll take care of her?" "I will send her away where no one will hurt her. If she comes here, I want you to tell her to go back to America. It is for the best if she leaves London immediately." Servaes’ voice was quiet, his lips hardly moved. "She left looking for you," Georgia said. "Don’t you think you should at least talk to her? She has gone to an awful lot of trouble trying to find you." "She should not have," Servaes whispered. He turned to leave. "Just tell her to go. Tell her it will be safe back in America for her." "You don’t believe that, do you?" Georgia asked, stopping him. "If someone as powerful as your kind is after her, America will not save her." Servaes bowed his head at the woman’s perception. He knew she couldn’t read his worries, but she was right. If the vampire council wanted her dead, there was nowhere on the planet she could hide. It was possible she was already within their grasp. "She wants to be with you," Georgia persisted when he didn’t leave. "Then she is a fool," he said in return. "My life is cursed."


"She has told me of your deeds." Georgia cautiously stepped forward. She laid a gentle hand on his arm. The cold muscles sent a chill over her. Leaning to the side to study his face through the trailing length of his dark brown hair, she said, "There is purpose to everything. You were made for a reason. And you love her for a reason. Do not question so much. Go to her and take her to be with you. It will work out." "So much faith," Servaes mused, amazed. He lifted a hand to her weathered cheek. He could feel her mortal age in his palm. "You should have some also," said Georgia. "Have faith in your heart. Do what it tells you. Life is too short, even your life I’d suspect. She was meant to be with you. She has gone through time for you. She has gone freely into the mouth of hell and possibly death -- for you. She loves you." "Hathor does not know, does she?" Servaes smiled a sad smile. Brushing the old woman’s cheek, he lifted his finger to his lips to taste her single tear. Biting into his fingertip, he drew the bloodied tip to her lips until they were stained a very moist red. "Drink this." Georgia stood transfixed. He wiped the blood over her mouth. She could feel the warm stickiness of it, a contrast to his cold skin. "This single drop will take away the cancer and the pain," he continued. Georgia’s eyes filled with tears. Again his hand drew over her cheek tenderly as he watched her swallow his gift. The backs of his fingers glided over her thinned hair. He could feel the immense pain the woman was in. She never let it show, not wanting anyone to fuss over her. Suddenly, Georgia wrapped her arms around him. Servaes stiffened at the unexpected gesture. She could feel her body recovering, growing with strength. Leaning her head to his broad chest, she rushed, "Thank you, Servaes. You’re a good boy. Don’t you ever doubt it!" Servaes patted her cheek, resting his fingers along her neck before drawing her away from him. Seriously, he ordered, "Go up and rest. You will feel tired for a few days. Do not fear. It is my blood warring with the disease inside of you. When my blood wins, you will feel better." "Promise me you will find her," Georgia whispered, trying to hold back her tears of worry and gratitude. "If it is within my power I will find her," he promised. Within a human second he was gone, disappearing into a fine mist that swirled out beyond the window. Georgia gasped at the abruptness of his departure. She touched her lips, drawing a finger away stained with a trace of blood. Sticking the last bit on her tongue, she sucked the gift from her finger. She went to the window to stare out into the darkness. "Go to her, boy," Georgia whispered. "Find her."

**** Jirí growled. He tore up the side of his hotel, over the balcony and through the suite searching for Hathor. She was nowhere. He could sense the lingering affects of a presence that was not Servaes’. The smell was too old to be his son, but was too faint to detect whom. Someone had taken Hathor.


Abruptly, he stopped. He appeared impassive as he walked to the balcony. He looked out over the city, searching for Servaes with his senses. He could detect him traveling alone through the night. Nodding his head, he somehow knew that Servaes would find her. Smiling, Jirí decided to give him the one night with her, before he set out to reclaim the human woman and bring her before the council.

Chapter Nineteen

A fire burned brightly in the large old fireplace of the bedchamber. Its soft melody echoed throughout the hollow room, cascading a warm orange glow over the gray stones, which were covered with thick velvet drapes. The long blue material flowed beautifully from ceiling to floor, spilling forth like a pool of water on the hard stone. Covering the floor in front of the fireplace was a bear rug, its brown fur soft and inviting. In place of a regular bed rested a coffin, made from brushed steel, its wide base large enough to fit two people easily within its deep core. Along the wall were a dressing table, a wardrobe, and a large high-backed chair with a padded cushion seat of matching velvet. Hathor opened her eyes. She felt the press of fur beneath her limbs. The softness of it tickled the back of her neck, sending chills over her spine. Weakly, she touched the side of her throat. She felt the dry scratch of blood against her fingers. As she sat, she wove back and forth, her attention drawn to the flames. "Hathor?" Hathor stiffened. Her head followed her dazed eyes over to the sound. Her pale lips endeavored to smile as she saw Servaes’ handsome face. Her lids drooped over her eyes, forcing her to peek at him from beneath her lashes. "Servaes," she murmured quietly. Servaes looked at her pale face, staring strangely at him from the middle of his rug. It was like a dream -- her in his room. There was no way she could have found it on her own. Looking around him, he couldn’t sense anyone else’s presence. "Who…?" he began. Suddenly, he frowned. He saw her body sway as she fell over to her side. He could detect the two perfect holes in her shirt over her breast, stained lightly red and two more matching holes on her jeans near her thigh. The soft brownish-red tresses of her hair clung to her neck, revealing two more very distinct punctures hidden there. Servaes was immediately by her side, gathering her up


into his strong arms. She smiled gratefully, unable to look at him. "Damn it, Hathor!" he cursed. His eyes searched her. She draped in his arms. "Who did this to you?" "I don’t," she mumbled incoherently. "Jirí took…." "Hathor!" voiced Servaes firmly to get her attention. His tone neared panic. He cursed again, this time in several languages so she couldn’t understand. Biting his wrist, he lifted it to her. He let a few drops pass her lips until her eyes opened once more. Hathor moaned as if awakening from a sweet dream. Her clouded eyes found his. She parted her lips to speak, but thought better of it and leaned up to press her lips against his instead. Servaes groaned, wrapping her instantly in his solid embrace. There were no words between them as Servaes laid her back on the soft fur. Hathor raised her arms to him, pulling him down to kiss her. Her fingers found the nape of his neck, hidden beneath the warm linen of his shirt. She lifted herself up to meet his firm, inviting hold. His hand found her back. Gently, he rolled next to her on the floor. Hathor felt the heat of the fire on her hand as she caressed the length of him. The flames glowed, haloing his perfect hair. The touch of his tapering fingers was unhurried as they explored over her every curve. His firm mouth only left hers to trail kisses over her face and throat. She ached at the sight of his beautiful, immortal expression and knew that this was where she would spend forever if he would let her. A moan escaped her as his hands found the flesh at her side, inching her shirt up as he explored her flat stomach. She sat up on the fur, reaching to pull her shirt off her shoulders. Then, with probing strokes, she tugged his shirt over his head. She took in the sight of his unmarred chest, the defined curves of his muscular folds. The stormy gaze of her blue eyes studied all of him. A smile lit on her features as she went into his arms. Servaes laid her on her back, stripping her completely with his supernatural speed. Within the next instant, he too was naked, molded to the length of her awaiting body. His eyes glanced over her breasts and thighs to make sure she was unharmed by the bites she received. He knew that they were his fault, albeit indirectly. Hathor chuckled passionately in spellbound awe, not noticing his self-reproach. Servaes was all around her. His body fitted along her in stroking caresses, his legs intertwined with her legs, his hips to her hips, his chest to her chest. The hot scolding length of his erection nestled into the crease of her leg, between her hips and thighs. With growing urgency, she rubbed herself against its taunting smoothness. Panting, she begged him with her body. Her legs spread, wrapping around his delectable waist. She opened herself to him, and he claimed her with a wild, fast stroke. Hathor gasped, feeling the pleasure of his consummate possession, the fullness of him inside her quivering body. Servaes leaned back to better press within her elegant depths. Her hips met his thrusts with uncontrolled surrender. Their heated groans grew in unison, building with passion and pleasure until they screamed their mutual release loud into the chamber. Hathor cried out, trembling. Tears came to her eyes at the power of him, his touch, his everlasting claim. As he fell against her sweat-laden chest, to lie weakly between her breasts, she couldn’t move but to breathe. Her arms fell to the side, resting by her head, and her legs fell from his body.


The crackling of fire marked the time. Slowly, Servaes raised his head. But instead of the loving gaze Hathor expected, his face was full of loathing and torture. He pushed himself away from her, not bothering to don his clothing as he turned from her to the fire. His forceful hands shoved deeply into his hair, pulling it at the roots in his suffering. Hathor stared at him for a long moment, the fire-bronze glow to his skin, the trim line of his pale back thrown into ravishing contrast of light and dark. He was a statue, strong against the test of time, untouched by age or illness. Hesitantly, she reached her hand to feel him. Instantly, his dark eyes pierced her with their mythical depths. She could see the power of his nature swimming in his gaze, unhidden and raw. She didn’t back away. Despite the warning she felt in him, she went to him unafraid. Her hand moved over his back, free from the sweat of exhaustion. She came to her knees, running her fingers into his hair to loosen his hold. When he relaxed, she pulled him to her chest, kneeling as she held him to her. Servaes could hear every excruciating beat of her human heart. He could feel the life in her, the decency of her spirit. He was obsessed. He pulled away from her chest to study her face. Her wide eyes searched him, open and vulnerable and completely trusting. It had been a long time since someone had looked at him thus. "We should not have done that," he stated darkly. "We will not do it again." Hathor managed a small smile, not believing his words and knowing he didn’t either. They could no sooner stop their feelings than they could time. Inquiring shyly, she asked, "Where is this place?" "My home," he answered in low tones. When she looked at him in confusion, he said, "Did you really think I would live in that little hole? I kept it for emergencies. This is where I sleep most nights." "Oh," she breathed, looking around at the sparsely decorated chamber dangling with cobwebs. Carefully, she said, "It’s nice." "How did you get here?" he asked, weary. He couldn’t take his eyes from her ravishing face, lined with sweat from their efforts. Hathor’s body wracked with shivers at the familiar sound of his voice. It was like a balm to her soul. She smiled a breathtakingly radiant smile, as she answered, "I don’t know. I just woke up." "You said Jirí," he prodded. He didn’t move away from her, but his expression didn’t encourage her affections either. "Yes." Her hand cupped his cheek before falling to her lap. She sat back on her feet. "Jirí saved me from some of the others. They were trying to kill me. I was by the club looking for you." "Damnation, Hathor! You are an obstinate woman! I told you not to look for me," he fumed in outrage. He pulled away from her, moving to stand in his agitation. "Why do you not listen?" Hathor grabbed his shirt, uncomfortable to be naked with him so angry. She slipped it over her head. The voluminous folds drifted to her knees. It carried the scent of him. With a sigh, she explained calmly, "You left me no choice. You weren’t going to come back to me. Now you, my dear Marquis, might have forever to figure things out, but I don’t."


"The man you love is dead," he growled. "The vampire I love stands before me," she answered smoothly. Servaes cursed the damning light in her eyes as it glowed confident in her words. Hathor stood to face him, her hand flying to her hips. "Now, I will admit, I do love the human form you presented to me. I do understand that the man you were is dead, but only physically. Everything I love is standing before me. Granted, your eyes are not as lighthearted and your smile not so ready. But love is not dependent on an easy smile. It is much more than that. It is the feeling of the sun and moon colliding within you at just a thought. It is the sensation of drowning in pleasure within a brief glance. And that is only the beginning of what I feel for you. Can’t you understand? I need you. I am not whole without you." Servaes wanted to believe the pretty words. They flowed over him, begging him to accept them. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t damn her for her ignorance. Darkly, he reasoned, "And what happens when you grow older? What of children and grandchildren and daylight? Will you not want it all? Will you truly be contented in your life with a being that can’t even walk you through a sunlit garden? Will you be contented knowing each dusk when I leave you I go to kill?" "But --" "No," Servaes answered for her. "You will not. What about after you are gone? What do you think it will do to me? I will never be able to die and join you. I will be trapped for an eternity with only the memory of you to torture me. That is not something I relish. Already it is hard for me to imagine my existence -- damned and cursed as it is -- without you. If not for you, then do it for me. Leave me forever. Do not search me out again. If you truly think to love me, then go. Find a man who can give you what you deserve. Have a life of love, one that will not be overshadowed by constant death." "My heart can’t love another, you fool," she cried. She tried to go to him. His gaze stopped her. He shook his head as he backed steadily away. "It is my blood in your veins that makes you say such things," he explained with damning rationale. "Stop telling me that! I am like a pincushion with all the blood taken and given to me. Every time I turn around someone is trying to bite me. Well, I am through with it. Ginger, Vincent, Lamar, Jirí, and whoever that last one was -- they can all rot. I know my mind." Hathor’s chest heaved in frustration. This was not going as she hoped. Her voice softened, insecure as she watched him. "And I don’t expect you to be lonely forever after I’m gone." His eyes shot to her, wondering at her words. Carefully, she acknowledged with a false sense of bravado, "For I am going to be with you forever. I’ll be with you so long you will tire of me and grow fond of me a hundred-thousand times over." "What are you trying to say?" he asked carefully. "For one who can read minds, you are pretty dense," she ruefully teased. He was not amused. Sighing, she said, "I want you to make me what you are. Turn me into a vampire so that I can be with you. It is the only way. I am tired of being bitten and chased. End it for me. Make me like you. It is the most logical answer." Servaes studied her. Going over to his pants, he pulled them on. Slowly, he tied the laces at the sides. He could feel Hathor’s eyes on him, waiting for him to answer.


"Servaes?" she whispered. "You do not know what you ask," he stated finally. He turned to her, looking at her graceful body in his shirt. He knew that the image of her now, before him in all her vulnerable charm, would never fade from his mind no matter how many more centuries would pass for him. "Yes, I do," she asserted. Hathor took a step for him. When he didn’t move, she turned her neck to the side. "Do it. Take my blood one last time. I know it will hurt. I saw you on the docks. But it won’t last. Now, take it. It is what I want to happen. I want to change and be with you forever. It is the only way either of us will find happiness." Servaes lifted a hand to her cheek, caressing her skin softly. He smelled her blood, her yearning. He felt his own love her for her pumping in his veins, the emotion sweet after so many years of nothing. The power of the feeling nearly choked the life from him. Softly, he murmured, "You could have been free of me. You could have left me to die that morning by the stairwell. You should have let me die." "I will never be free of you," she whispered back. Her eyes closed. She stood waiting for him, her body tense and nervous. Servaes leaned forward, baring his teeth for the bite. Freezing in midair, he studied the rose tint to her complexion, the fine lines of her soft face and delicate lids. He heard the thud of her heart, and then he felt her shake. Slowly he drew back, covering his fangs with his lips. "You might never be free," he whispered, "but you must forget about me. I will not turn you. I will not be the one to damn your soul." "Then I will find someone else," she threatened. "Jirí --" "He will not," Servaes denied easily, knowing it to be true. "Jirí will not change a woman." "Well then I will find someone else besides the sexist pig," Hathor fumed. "Maybe that man … creature that must have brought me here. Maybe he will help me." "Who?" Servaes questioned, remembering that she mentioned before that someone else had taken her blood. "I don’t know. He was older than both you and Jirí. And he was very powerful." Hathor went over to her jeans, pulling the denim roughly over her hips. Servaes felt a surge of jealousy in his chest. Defiantly, she charged, "Then let’s see you try to run from me for the next eternity. I should very much like proving you wrong as you make love to me every night." "You will have to kill," he stated, knowing he was losing the battle against her. Her face stiffened in determination. "I will find another way. Or I will do like you, feeding off those who deserve death." Hathor grabbed her bra, threading it on underneath his shirt. She stared at his naked chest, trying not to feel longing when she looked at him. Then, for good measure, she added, "Besides, with as much blood as I’ve been forced to swallow lately, I’m starting to develop a taste for it." Servaes frowned.


"Maybe someday we will find a cure," she said, getting her bra hooked and unthreading her arms. "There is no cure," he asserted angrily. He rushed for her, taking her brusquely by the arms. Lifting her up into the air, his voice contorted to the sound of thundering demons. "Do you not understand? There is only death. You do not know what you ask for." "Put me down," Hathor insisted calmly through clenched teeth. Her lips set in a hard line. Then, smirking coldly, she spat, "You had best find your rest, lover. Even I can feel the approaching sun." Servaes dropped her, knowing she was right. Hathor fell to the ground, tumbling to her knees with a gasp of pain. Turning her head to him, she watched him as she stood. A battle of the wills lit in their eyes, neither one daring to back down. "Get in," he commanded. The coffin lid slammed open with a single gesture. The casket vibrated at the livid movement. "I will take you back to your aunt at dusk. She is worried about you. From there you will leave London -- forever." "I’ll sleep on the floor," she lied, knowing he couldn’t sense it. She rubbed her sore knee gingerly as she glared at him. "If I were to lie next to you now I might try to shove a stake through your hateful chest." "So be it," he growled, relieved that he wouldn’t have to suffer the torture of her nearness. The coffin lid crashed shut with a reverberating thud. Servaes was gone. Hathor walked over to the coffin. She stared down at it for several minutes, feeling his returned glare from within. Then, after enough time had passed to make sure the sun was over the horizon, she tapped the lid lightly with her nails. She felt him refusing to reach up to her. Hathor smiled, putting on her socks and shoes. Keeping his black shirt, she tied the material at her waist as she went to the door. Opening it up, she saw the gentle stream of sunlight filtering in from overhead. See you later, lover, she directed at him with a snarl in her thoughts. Hathor! His voice returned in iron-fisted warning. She heard his knuckles crash with the lid of his coffin. She slammed the chamber door behind her. Damn you Hathor! Get back here!

**** The day passed in a blur. Hathor walked the streets of London, stopping about midmorning to call her aunt. Georgia came to pick her up, eyeing her niece’s solemn expression with concern. Hathor managed to get the whole story out on the ride home, skipping the part where she and Servaes had made love in front of the fire. "So what are you going to do?" Georgia asked. She smiled kindly, walking with a newfound energy around the car to the house. She wrapped a tender arm around her young niece, helping her inside. Hathor let her aunt help her. She would have had to be a blind fool not to see the healthy glow on her aunt’s face. She wondered at it, but didn’t ask. Wearily, she answered, "What I said I would do. I will find someone else to turn me. Maybe the one I was telling you about, Jirí."


"Is that a good idea? I thought he wanted to kill you," Georgia said with concern. "Won’t Servaes be mad?" "Damn Servaes and his anger," Hathor spat, too tired to see straight. "He doesn’t know what is good for him or else I would already be like him." "He only denies you because he loves you Hathor," Georgia said logically. She could taste the truth of it in the blood he gave her. Servaes was tormented by the idea of making Hathor’s existence a bleak and cursed life, as his had been thus far. Georgia found it quite admirable of him to sacrifice his own happiness for what he thought would be best for Hathor. Just as she knew her niece would never give up until she was dead or immortal with him. She knew Hathor only wanted to be with her vampire. She could see the truth of it in every whispered confession. Turning to the stairs, Hathor climbed them one by one. Her shoulders slumped in dejection. Her head hung down towards the floor. Mumbling, she said, "I’m going to bed. I can’t think straight right now." "All right, dear," Georgia said quietly. Without having to be asked, she said, "I’ll wake you up before nightfall."

Chapter Twenty

The cold stare of greenish hazel looked up into the darkness. The gaze gave away nothing as Jirí lifted his hand to press the coffin’s lid up from his face. To his surprise, he noticed the soft glowing of a lamp on the black satin lid. He frowned, sitting up in a gentle glide to look around the room. "Good morning, Jirí," Hathor stated. She watched him from the big plush chair. Her stormy gaze was as cold as his was as she watched him. She ran her fingertips over the edge of her nails lazily, as if she had been there all day waiting for him to wake up. "Or should I say, good evening?" "M’lady," Jirí nodded, curious as to why she was there. Hathor looked at him, studying him. Jirí could smell Servaes’ recent touch on her and could detect her human heartbeat. He wondered what she was doing in his chamber. Quietly, he came out of his coffin, moving to stand up before her. Hathor stood. She walked over to him, calm and sure. Staring him in the eye, she said, "You must be hungry."


Jirí smiled a wickedly entrancing grin. Hathor brushed her hair back over her shoulder. She presented her neck to him. He held back. He knew what she wanted him to do. He could sense it. "Where is Servaes?" he questioned, ignoring her offer. Hathor shrugged, but otherwise gave no indication that she heard him. Pointedly, she stated, "You know why I’m here. Get on with it." "Do I?" he asked, his smile widening. "I want you to turn me," she forced bluntly. "You know Servaes won’t do it. But it’s what I want -- to be with him. Servaes is too noble to do it. He thinks he will damn my soul to hell or some such nonsense. But he is wrong. I have seen his soul, and it is not in any hell, unless you count the hell of his own making. He is my salvation and I his. But you don’t have any qualms about giving the dark gift, do you Jirí? I saw you turn Servaes without a moment’s regret. You enjoyed it. You enjoyed the power of it. So do me this favor. Drink, Jirí, and turn me. What is it to you anyway?" "I do not change women," he stated simply, his smile never wavering. He could feel her troubled heart and deep love. He was sorry for it. He was sorry that Servaes hadn’t taken her. It was clear that she was willing -- willing enough to chance death in finding him again. "Make an exception," she countered. "I don’t expect you to take care of me after. And I’ll owe you one." "How did you find me, m’lady?" he wondered aloud. He knew that if he wanted he could search the answer out in her mind. But he found talking to her too entertaining. He waited instead to see what she said on her own. "It is quite the interesting balcony. I merely found the bridge, turned north and here I am. Though I will admit it was quite the climb up. Luckily, someone found me and let me through. I told them that I was in love with the man in this room and was going to propose to him tonight." "Quite the cunning liar." Jirí laughed. Hathor saw approval in his eyes. "I don’t usually lie. But I had to. I am left with no choice. So won’t you get on with it?" Hathor once again turned her neck to his mouth and waited. "The sooner, the better for both of us." "I know you do not lie often," he stated by way of casual conversation. He brushed past her to sit on the couch. "Come on," Hathor went to step in front of him. She grew impatient. "Hurry before Servaes tries to find me and stop me." "Nay, m’lady, I will not change you," Jirí’s words were smooth. "It is not for me to do so." "Then what will you do with me? I know you’re not going to let me go." Hathor sighed, walking back to her chair. She fell back into the cushioned seat and looked at him, openly disheartened by his refusal. Although, she was hardly surprised by it. "I have been ordered to bring you back to the tribal council if Servaes didn’t change you afore I got to


you. You are not changed, so I will take you." Jirí waved his hand. "So even if I had a desire to change you, I cannot." "That simple, eh?" "Yea," Jirí assented, "that simple." "Is it going to hurt?" she asked, before clarifying. "What the council is going to do to me, will it hurt?" Jirí shrugged. "I will do my best to block any pain from you. You must open your mind to let me do so. I will make it as if you were not even there." Hathor studied his cold face until with no small amazement she realized that he was hiding a wealth of compassion in his savage depths. His eyes narrowed carefully. "You have someone, don’t you?" she asked in wonderment. "Someone like me." Jirí’s eyes flashed with discomfort. He didn’t answer. "I love Servaes," she put forth. "I can feel that you do." "Then, help me. Help us," Hathor begged. "Take me to him. Tell him that there is no other way because the council is going kill me. Tell him that you can read me and that I do want to be with him. Tell him I’m not confused. Tell him you can feel it. You can too, can’t you? You know I speak the truth." "I am to bring you to the council," he said darkly. Then, scratching behind his ear, he sighed. "Oh, very well, I will let you say goodbye to him if he will come. But you have to wait here this time. No running off. As soon as I feed I will come back for you." Jirí stood, walking over to the balcony door. He pulled it open with his will. He was about to leave when her words stopped him. "I didn’t run off," Hathor stated with a frown. "Someone took me to him." Jirí glanced at her, trying to read whom. He saw a vague impression in her mind, but couldn’t tell who it was. It was someone old, of that he was sure. Was the council checking up on him? Did one of the other tribal leaders have an interest in her? Or was it someone else, an old vampire who knew her secret? Without answering her, he turned and fell into the night sky, traveling with the wind in search of food. The questions inside him still lingered.

**** Hathor clung to the side of the Bloody Tower’s rooftop. Chills traveled through her body, making her nervous and excited at the same time. She watched the night sky. It was spectacular, dazzlingly beautiful from the taller height. Her eyes looked past the sparkling stars, searching for Servaes. Then, finding a shooting star in his stead, she turned her attention back to Jirí. He was only too happy to pass the time telling her the horrible stories of what happened beneath the square stone rooftop.


"In the sixteenth century King Edward V and his younger brother the Duke of York were both murdered at the tender age of about thirteen. I still remember it. One was smothered with a pillow. The other stabbed. It was quite the scandal of the day," spoke Jirí. "For a time the bodies were buried in the basement under a pile of rubble. Then they were moved over there, by the White Tower, though the graves were forgotten for nearly a hundred years." Hathor followed Jirí’s finger, shivering at the idea. "Is there a reason why you are telling me this?" she questioned sharply. "Or are you just bored and feeling chatty?" "I only want you to understand what you are asking for. I see you tremble for those boys who died so long ago. It turns your stomach to think on it, does it not?" Jirí smiled. She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. "That is why I do not change women. They lack the strength to last the centuries. And, more oft than not, they are the ones to go mad. Methinks it is because of the instinct of motherhood in them. Women are softer than men are. They are meant to love and give life. Men naturally take it. Men are warriors, women are mothers." "That is the most antiquated --" Hathor began. "I am antiquated," Jirí chuckled. "But I am still right. Inherently, women are the fairer sex. And, in being such, they are not made for killing. And --" "And should be protected from such things," finished Hathor with a small smirk. It might have been an old notion, but it was still a nice one in theory. "Yea, and protected," he admitted ruefully. "Then why would you bring me to the council?" she asked. She shot him an intelligent smile. "Shouldn’t you protect me, a woman?" "It is not the same. It is my duty to bring you. I should not even have brought you here," he stated coolly, unaffected by her charge. "Then why did you?" Servaes asked, appearing from the darkness. "I wondered when you were going to show yourself, friend." Jirí’s back was to Servaes as he looked out over the city. He didn’t turn to him. "I could little refuse your invite, father," he asserted indifferently. Jirí was not fooled by his tone. "What kind of son would I be?" Hathor gasped as he took a quick look at her. She rushed forward only to stop when she saw the hard set of his jaw. Frowning, she grimaced, "You’re still angry, aren’t you?" Servaes glared at her, silencing her for the moment. He refused to acknowledge her otherwise. Hathor held back. Turning once more to Jirí, Servaes asked, "Why have you brought her to me?" "Methought you might like to bid her farewell afore I deliver her into the hands of the elders. They wish to feast on her. I daresay, though, with all your blood in her they might want to wait a few months," Jirí


chuckled quietly. He was enjoying himself. "Perchance, it is because I have grown soft in my old age." Servaes snorted in disbelief. Do you want me to take her now? Jirí shot to his friend when Servaes didn’t answer. Hathor watched, frightened. She couldn’t hear him. "I thought I had a month," Servaes said, not answering Jirí’s thoughts. "Ah, that." Jirí nodded wisely. He waved his hand over the night before placing it once more behind his back. "The council has spoken. If she is alive and human they want her. They all want a taste of her. In fact, are most anxious to get one." "I will not let you take her," Servaes warned. "You will not have a choice," answered Jirí. He shot a dark glance over his shoulder. "If you, by some outrageous miracle, stop me then others will come." "I’ll take her to America. Tell the elders she is dead." Servaes took a menacing step forward. "Nay," Jirí denied. "I will not lie for a blood being. The council will see it easily." "They will kill her, Jirí." Servaes finally looked at Hathor. Her face was pale and drawn. She gulped, suddenly realizing how real of a fate the council was for her. Servaes’ tortured eyes searched her. In a flash she saw rows of fangs slicing into her body at once. She felt the endless days of torture that would await her as they probed and studied and tasted. "Yea," Jirí returned, "they will. You should have killed her yourself, my son, for now it is too late." Servaes growled and bounded with fury at Jirí’s back. The older vampire sidestepped the charge easily, feeling it coming before Servaes even moved. Servaes flew over the side of the building, dipping below the edge before reappearing with a leap onto the stone. Jirí’s hands fell to the side as they glared at each other. "You will not win, my son," Jirí whispered. Repeating his earlier warning, he said, "If I do not bring her, more will follow." "He’s right Servaes," Hathor called. She saw the glowing in his eyes, a burning fire that reflected just as darkly from Jirí’s. She shivered at the deadly force of both vampires as they faced each other. "They will not stop coming for me. Not until I am dead." "I will protect her," Servaes growled to Jirí, not taking his eyes from him. "From Ragnhild? Amon?" Jirí asked with a disdainful scowl. "You are a fool if you truly believe you can. Yea, Servaes, I know them all well. I know what they will do. Am I not the one who represents our tribe now as Vladamir sleeps? The stories of the council are true. You cannot fight all seven tribal leaders and me. They are too powerful." "You know the death they will give her, Jirí," Servaes shouted. He leapt down from the edge, stalking forward to move around Jirí in a circle. Suddenly, he burst forward, slamming into Jirí’s waist. Hathor screamed in terror as the men fought through the air, only to stumble and fall over the other side. She ran


after them to look down. Jirí was on the ground, Servaes atop of him. Then, just as quickly, Jirí pushed up from the earth, and the men flew over Hathor’s head, missing it by mere inches with their boots, to land on their feet behind her. "Then finish her! Kill her!" Jirí ordered, pressing his hands into Servaes’ shoulders as he moved him back. "You have the power to make her death painless! But do it now afore any others discover the chance I gave you." "I cannot!" Servaes growled. Hathor gasped. His gaze softened when he looked at her. The fight drained from his body. Turning his troubled gaze to Jirí, he whispered, "I cannot do it." Jirí nodded his head, hiding his smile from both lovers. He released his hold, letting his arms drop as he backed off. Lifting his jaw, he let an emotionless mask fall over his face. Quietly, he commanded, "Then turn her." I cannot, Servaes said to Jirí, unable to say the words aloud. I cannot condemn her to this life. I am not worthy of her. You must do something, Jirí countered. He looked at Hathor. Her pink lips pursed together in worry, her creamy skin glowing like fresh peaches. "Servaes," Hathor whispered. She crossed over to him. His body was rigid as she placed her hand on his arm. "Please, Servaes. Do not let him take me. Change me. It is what I want to happen. I want to be with you." Servaes knew he had no choice. As he looked into her eyes, he knew that it was what he wanted, too. His gaze bore into Jirí’s as he reached forward to grab Hathor by the neck and pull her forward. His touch was tender. He lowered his mouth. He glanced at her eyes, seeing her gaze as she watched him trustingly from under the sweep of her lashes. Hathor nodded at him, opening her mind to him so that he may read all that was inside of her. Servaes felt his heart thud in time with hers. Her love was there for him, pure and sweet and innocent. He was afraid that if he took her, as he must, he would kill some of that innocence. Hathor gasped as his lips closed around her. His teeth pierced her skin with liquid fire. He drank deeply from her, feeling the life of her body, her soul, as it flowed into him. He stole her mortality into himself. He felt her love all around him. She moaned lightly against his greedy lips, but Servaes didn’t stop. His eyes closed to everything, closed to Jirí who watched silently from the sidelines. He lowered her down as he drank. Then it was over. Hathor dropped from his arms to land gently on the ground, completely drained but for a drop. Her eyes were closed, and her lungs filled with shallow air. Servaes stared at her sweet face, drained of color and life. He saw the bloody wound he afflicted on her neck. "You must give her life, Servaes. Give her back her blood from your body," Jirí instructed quietly. Servaes needed no instruction. He knew what he must do. Falling to his knees, Servaes bit into his wrist, slashing it open with a violent pull. Blood spilled over him, pouring from the wound in his fattened veins onto Hathor’s face. Her lips moved slowly to gasp. He hesitated only once as he pushed his wrist to her mouth. He felt his heart lurch painfully.


He gave her life back to her -- her blood empowered by his own. By small degrees, her strength returned. Her lips sought his wrist. Her eyes shot open, filled crimson with blood. Servaes let her have it, let her take however much she wanted from him. "It is enough, Servaes. Do not give too much of yourself or you will be too weak to take her to your coffin." When Servaes didn’t stop, Jirí rushed forward and pried them apart. Louder, he demanded, "It is enough, Servaes! If you give her everything, you will take in her death! You will die!" Servaes fell weakly to the side, not caring if he did die. Hathor screeched as an intense pain shot through her body. Her legs flailed toward the ground, striking her feet on the brick. A scream was wrought from her chest, loud and piercing in its agony. Servaes saw his blood staining her face and trailing in rivulets down her neck. Her eyes rolled back in her head until only the whites showed from under her lashes. "What is wrong with her?" Servaes questioned sharply. He glanced at Jirí, too spent to move from the ground. "She is dying. It happens to us all," Jirí answered quietly. Hathor’s eyes cleared. She looked first at Jirí and then to Servaes on the ground beside her. Her body stiffened with searing anguish, but she didn’t scream. Her eyes focused on Servaes’ face. He could see her trying to smile for him, trying to hide her pain. He was not fooled. He could feel it in her. Jirí leaned over, stroking her hair gently from her face as she writhed in horrendous foreboding. Her body convulsed beneath his hand. Spit traveled from her mouth across her cheek, mixed pink with blood. Jirí was unconcerned. He had seen the changing before. He pushed his fingernail into his wrist, letting a drop of his blood fall onto her gasping mouth. Her eyes shot open in surprise at the gift. The blood lessened her pain by a small degree. Lightly, he said to her, "Welcome my brave daughter. If ever you have a need of me, I will hear your call." Jirí stood. His eyes found Servaes on the ground. His son’s face was turned up to the stars in torment, his body hardly moved. Hate me no more, my son, Servaes heard Jirí whisper down to him. He didn’t turn to look at his father. Harbor me no ill will. The old vampire’s eyes turned from the couple. Jirí walked away, gliding across the rooftop without effort. He heard Hathor’s writhing screams, felt her blood turning. It was not nearly over for her, and he didn’t want to stay and watch. Jirí didn’t look back again as he jumped into the night sky. Within the flash of a shooting star, he was gone.

Chapter Twenty One


The lonely whistling of the wind as it brushed over weathered stones was the only sound intruding over the Bloody Tower’s rooftop, broken by Hathor’s soft whimpers as she tried to fight her pain. The sparkling diamonds in the sky shone down over the couple, marred slightly by city lights. Hathor moaned again, tears coming unbidden from her wide eyes as she began to cry out. Her heart squeezed in her chest. Her lungs refused to fill with air until she suffocated. She could sense her limbs tightening with muscles, growing stronger as her insides grew weaker. Servaes scrambled quickly to his knees, his body feeling odd as he crawled over to Hathor. Her body continued to lurch with death. Her hands flung wide only to draw forward into her chest once more. She curled into a ball, fighting the pain, bearing through it. A weak moan left her lips and then another. Servaes realized it was his name. He reached a trembling hand to her forehead, touching it lightly in a gentle caress. He knew that her pain was of his doing. He hated himself for it. Without warning, Servaes felt an ache deep inside himself. At first it was a dull thud in his stomach, and then it became a sharp sensation cursing through this blood. His body lurched as if it might vomit. He knew it was impossible, but his body spasmed, spewing blood out over the top of the roof. He felt the warm fluid leaving him as he continued to heave. Jirí, his mind called out, confused. No words left his mouth as he fell away from Hathor. Hathor felt Servaes leave her. She felt his pain as it compacted onto her own. Turning her head to him, her hand reached out to find his. As flesh pressed into dying flesh, a flash of white light surrounded them, thickened by the roaring of water. With a glimmer of time, she was back with him on the docks only to pass forward, sharing every instant of his vampire life in accelerated speed. Some of it passed so quickly she couldn’t remember every detail. Servaes was there too, remembering it. They watched it like a show, feeling the same thing tearing a heated trail through them, making them moan with the pain of it -- an endless flash of faces and places, libraries and old hotels, death and rebirths. When his images finally stopped, she knew she saw everything -- every century, every second he had lived since his death. Then it was her life that flashed, though more quickly since she hadn’t lived as long. Servaes watched every moment from her birth to her human death beside him now. Through their pain, some memories were lost. But there were no secrets between them. Their minds were joined completely as were their bodies. As the last instant faded, they were left weak beside each other. The pain slowly drained from their limbs, leaving them spent. Servaes felt like a newborn, weak and untried. Hathor could barely force her limbs to move as she stared blindly at the moon above their heads. She could feel her hair and nails growing from the death of her organs. The reddish tresses formed around her face becoming shiny. Her cheeks pulled and thinned against her bones. She felt her stomach tighten before it painfully tugged. She rolled over to the side, lifting herself as she retched next to Servaes blood. Her body convulsed and stiffened. She wanted to cry. Her tears would no longer fall. Her eyes stayed dry. "Am I dead?" she managed at last. Resting on her hands and knees, her head bowed low. She fell over to the side.


"Yes," Servaes answered. Something was not right. He didn’t feel well. But he could perceive her worry and didn’t want to alarm her. With a force he knew not that he possessed, he pushed himself up next to her and gathered her into his arms. Her pale face looked at him, beautiful and drawn. She wanted to hold him, but her body lay still. She contented herself with looking at him. "It is done?" she asked, closing her eyes as he lifted her up into his firm embrace. Servaes hooked his arm beneath her legs, carrying her before his chest. "Yes, my love, it is done. We are forever," he murmured against her hair. "Now let us find your rest. You must hunt tomorrow." Hathor nodded. Whispering, she hushed, "Stay with me." "Always." A shiver ran up his spine, even as he said the word. He knew that they were still in danger. The council could still come after them both. But, if it was her fate to die again, then he would die with her. Their destiny was joined. Her eyes closed as she fell asleep. Hathor nestled her head into his shoulder, his name a murmur on her delicately parted lips. Servaes lifted her up, their bodies swirling with the moonlight as they drifted together through the dark, abandoned city streets. His arms were weak with a powerless pull, his movements not as swift. He pushed on through the night to their bed. As Servaes moved, he couldn’t detect the motionless figure watching them from high on a surrounding tower. The vampire sat, surveying the immortal play before him like cryptic gargoyle. The figure’s dark green cloak whipped about him, blending into the darkness, invisible to all but the stars. The old fingers pressed together to steeple under an aged chin. Slowly, a smile formed on his lips, only to disappear as the vampire blew undetected into the night wind. As he swirled away, one thought left his mind, like the sweet lost melody of a song, hope.

**** Servaes whisked Hathor to the safety of his coffin. He had no choice but to take her past the other vampires as he sped through the Vampire Club. He was aware of the stares he received from the others. He didn’t stop to acknowledge their questioning glances shooting behind him. Ginger glared defiantly, her eyes bore brazen and outraged. She grimaced in anger when she smelled Hathor’s change. Baring her fangs, she growled viciously, but was helpless against the fate of the once mortal woman. Lamar tried to step forward to stop Servaes from passing through. But a hand on his arm stopped him. Jirí came from the shadows, undetected by them until that moment. With a soft shush, he shook his head. "You are all ordered by the tribal council to leave her be. She is one of you now, and you cannot touch her lest you break the sacred laws of our kind." Jirí didn’t need to say more. The young ones glowered in anger, disappearing into a fine mist as they sought their beds. When they were gone, Jirí looked around at the decadent club, hating everything the place stood for. The young ones didn’t understand the power they had been given. They didn’t understand the gift or the curse. But, mayhap, Servaes had been right. They were a product of their time. The humans no longer understood either. Most of them didn’t even


believe. Shaking his head in disgust, Jirí mumbled under his breath as he left. He was tired. He wanted to sleep. Only duty to his tribe as their acting leader kept him awake so long. He knew that until Vladamir returned to claim his place, he wouldn’t be relieved of his duties. Part of him had hoped that Servaes would take over for him. It would never be. He saw that now. As he walked across the hollow stone floor, out the passageway into the streets, he whispered with a tired sigh, "I want to go home."

**** His bedchamber was dark when Servaes arrived in it. He didn’t bother to light the fireplace as he laid Hathor into his coffin. He settled beside her and curled around her body, pulling her next to him where she would be kept safely and soothingly in his arms. She shivered, opening her eyes to look at him. Servaes gave her a reassuring wink. He wearily closed the lid on top of them, casting their bodies into the sanctuary of darkness, safe from the light of the sun. She smiled contentedly, despite her depleted state. Servaes felt his heart beat happily that she was completely his. His joy was tainted only somewhat with regret. That night as they slept, instead of the dreamless void that was expected, they both dreamt of ancient skies filled with stone carved birds. Neither of them could understand, only watch as the stone turned into an animal flying off into the brilliant sunlit sky.

**** The murky passageways leading beneath the city streets were painted black with darkness. The vampires didn’t mind as they skirted through, using the power of their eyes to see each bend and curve of their way. Their feet drifted soundlessly above the stone walk, not dirtying themselves in the puddles of stagnant water that pooled beneath them. Ginger held up her hand. Her pink hair was slicked back over her head, pulled out of her eyes. The black leather of her outfit hugged every nuance of her perfect body. Turning to the side, she motioned for her companions to stop. Her eyes glowed, but she said nothing as she motioned to them with her hands. She sniffed the air, smiling cruelly as she did. Then, tilting her jaw, she waved for her cohorts to continue. Lamar handed her a brick before turning to grab several more from behind him. Vincent carried a bucket of wet mortar, setting in on the ground as if it was nothing. Quickly, they set to work, sealing the door of Servaes’ chamber like a tomb. What if he can push through? Vincent thought. He will not be pleased. He won’t, Ginger shot back with her mind. Even her thoughts sounded like whining dissatisfaction. He has not fed yet tonight. He sleeps. And he is weak from changing the human whore. Once he discovers he is locked in, he will feed on her, taking her life so that he may be strong enough to escape. We might not be able to touch her, but he can. He won’t have a choice. Vincent and Lamar chuckled lightly. They hastily completed their work without detection. The wall they


constructed was three feet thick when they finished, compiled of nothing but rock and quick-drying mortar. Ginger let loose an open-mouth howl as she screamed defiantly at the barricade, cursing the couple sleeping inside. The others laughed. The devious sound could be heard echoing the passageway as they made their way to dine.

**** Servaes jolted awake at the sound of evil laughter. His eyes blinked hard. His body was overly sore. Pushing up the lid of the coffin when he detected the night, he threw his hand over to the fireplace, lighting it with his will. His ears strained to listen to the sound that still rang in his ears. Easily, he came out of his coffin. Good night, Servaes. Servaes froze. He heard Ginger’s words clearly in his head. Hathor’s eyes shot open, looking pale and frantic as she gazed up at him. He rushed to the door, pushing at the heavy oak wood. It didn’t move under his strength. Hathor pulled herself up, watching him curiously from their bed. Her lethargic senses slow to take in what was happening. She too heard Ginger’s ominous laughter in her mind, but she couldn’t see the woman. "Servaes?" she mumbled. "What is it?" "Ginger has locked us within these walls," he answered curtly. He braced his shoulder against the door, trying again to push on it. He used all his strength yet the door wouldn’t budge. A fierce growl left his lips. Hathor grew scared. Her round eyes swam with a cloudy visage. Her pale lips parted as she watched him. Servaes left off forcing the door and turned to study her intently. In many ways she was the same, beautifully innocent. But her skin was pale and tight against her face. Her hair was longer, trailing in delectable waves down her back past her shoulders, curling around the sides of her breasts. The locks were of a shiny auburn. Her body had become lean and was more graceful. Her eyes had changed, too. They took on a supernatural shine, mingling with power and strength, swirling in a pattern of different colors. The hunger hadn’t come to her yet. It was odd that it should be so. But Servaes had no doubt that it would come. When it did, it would be fierce and painful for her if he couldn’t feed her, and soon after the pain would come death -- her death. "Why would she trap us? What does this mean?" Hathor asked, fearfully. She crawled from the coffin, forcing herself to stand before him. Her face stared at Servaes calmly. "It means we are trapped," he stated. "It means that we cannot feed. If we cannot feed, then we will grow weak. The bloodlust will take over, and we will attack each other. One of us will die." As he looked at her, Hathor knew that it would be her. He was much older than she was. He knew how to wield his powers. She could see that he knew it also. Shamefully, he turned his back on her. "Why couldn’t you have stayed away from me?" he sighed darkly. His words were a tortured denial of


everything around them. "You should have listened. Now you will die anyway, and I will be alone." Servaes had tasted one night of happiness with her next to him. He had been given one night without loneliness. And now, because of the envy of others, it would be taken away from him. He would live for an eternity knowing that he was the one who killed her. "I will not blame you," she whispered, sensing his pain. She went to him, laying a hand on his tense shoulder. Her smile sought to draw out his. She was not successful. "I would give my life for you. I have given my life for you. I will never regret a moment. And neither shall you. I chose this path. I chose you." "When the time comes, I want you to drink from me. I want you to take my life. I will not fight you. Then you will have my strength. You will be able to move the door. Go above to the streets and use your mind to call for Jirí," Servaes instructed, not completely convinced it would be so. His fingers dug into her arms painfully when she thought to deny him. Commandingly, he said, "You will do this. Jirí will protect and help you." "No, I won’t," she said without pause. "I will call for Jirí now. He can come open the door." "No, we are too far under the earth. Jirí has left for far away and will not hear you," Servaes answered. "Do you not understand? We are condemned to die!" Suddenly, Hathor’s face contorted. She shook her head angrily. "I will not give up now. I have gone through too much to roll over and die again. I will not be forced to kill you. There is no point in an eternity without you. All right, fine. You don’t want to kill me. I will not eat you. Then we will both die, or we will both live." "But, the bloodlu --" Servaes began Hathor held up her hand. "Damn the bloodlust! I don’t care. If all we can do is wait, than I say we wait. They will have to check on us sometime, will they not?" "Oui," Servaes grinned. He couldn’t help himself. Her attitude surprised him, made him forget what they faced. "But we should conserve our energy, my sweet chéri." "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." "Oui, mademoiselle," he whispered. He sensed her concern and worry and wished to erase it from her pretty face. Stroking her soft cheek, he sighed. "Let us think of something to do quickly, before we tempt fate too much. I would teach you about your powers, but I still think that you shouldn’t use your energies." "Can you teach me how to light the fire without a match?" she asked, shyly. Servaes studied her face, beautiful and secure next to him. She trusted him completely to take care of her. He stared at her glowing eyes, purple swimming within the ocean of blue. He smoothed the rich red-brown locks back from her pale, flawless skin. Gradually, he nodded. Raising his hand over his shoulder, he smothered the fire with little effort. "Show off," she mused. Servaes chuckled.


"The trick to fire," he began, turning her around with him easily, "is to think of fire." Servaes turned Hathor to the fireplace. He came up to her back. His body pressed closely to hers. Then, with a motion of his hand, the fire lit up. With another motion, it died. "Simple," he stated. "You try." Hathor lifted her hand, waving it in the air. All she received was a spark, not the great blaze she envisioned. "It will come," he murmured close to her ear. His lips brushed the skin on her neck. Hathor shivered. Huskily, he whispered, "Try again."

**** "They’re both still there," Ginger spat. She lowered her hand from the brick wall only to hit it viciously in her anger. The skin on her knuckles scraped off at the tirade only to heal instantly. Frowning, she hissed, "They can’t survive much longer. She should be dead!" Vincent and Lamar glanced at each other. Just then, they detected laughter on the other side of the blockade. Ginger growled in outrage, storming away before they could answer her. "Maybe they are eating rats?" Lamar suggested, putting his hands on the barricade. Behind him water dripped from the ceiling, puddling on the ground in even splashes. He closed his eyes, doing his best to concentrate his thoughts. He felt the couple moving behind the thick stone, very much alive. His ears strained for the sound of rodents, hoping to prove his point and solve the mystery. "I don’t hear rats," Vincent spat. He laid his hand on the rock, pretending to do the same. His impression of them was indistinct and unfocused. "That is because they ate them," Lamar hissed, pretentiously. The vampire’s eyes met and locked in silent battle. "The rodents are gone now. They will turn on each other soon," Vincent predicted. His eyes glowed black with hatred. "I hope Hathor wins, though it is unlikely. I should like to step in to teach her about our kind." "How do you know she would choose you?" Lamar asked in disgust, turning to flee down the passageway to hunt. "She might choose me." "I have tasted her," Vincent bragged. He followed Lamar into the rain-soaked night. Lamar sped up, trying to ignore his swaggering friend. Vincent refused to be disregarded. "And if she doesn’t, I will show her how painful an existence ours can be. Perhaps, I will make her my eternal slave." "You couldn’t enslave a fly," Lamar hissed, speeding up into the night. His senses caught a drunk passed out in an alleyway. He thought to find the man and scare him for a bit of fun. He tried to lose Vincent by snaking erratically through different alleyways. The vampire stayed close on his trail. "Could so!" Vincent protested, not about to be outdone. He turned a sharp corner, his eyes focused on


Lamar’s back. As they sped, his unrelenting objections were lost into the blurring movement of the night.

**** The hours faded and blended, turning into days, molding into a full week. Still, Servaes and Hathor stayed within the bedchamber, trapped. Each night Ginger would lead Vincent and Lamar to the door, growing outraged to hear them still alive within. No sounds of torture came from the room as she listened. "Argh!" Ginger screeched. She flung her fist against the stone in wild fury. Every night, her hands became bloodied and raw. Pushing them to her sides, she ignored the pain as she healed herself. "There is no way they have lasted this long! I want them dead! Suffering! I want them to feel pain!" Vincent and Lamar would watch her frantic ranting, as she cursed death upon the two within the chamber. Then, after Ginger left, they would follow her out into the night to hunt.

**** Within the quiet sanctuary, Servaes would read to Hathor from some of the volumes he had collected. Most of them were in his native tongue, although some were in other languages she didn’t understand -German, Spanish, Slavic. When he didn’t read, he would teach her things with her powers, simple tricks that didn’t take up most of her strength. But, as the days wore on and neither of them weakened from lack of blood, Servaes grew bolder in his teachings. Hathor quickly mastered many of the skills -- invisibility to humans and other vampires, mind reading, mind control -- though she had little chance to perfect them since she couldn’t control her teacher and there were no humans to try them on. Each day, her mind grew stronger, her body more fine-tuned and her skin paler. And, each day, Servaes felt the strangeness within him stir and grow. "I am tired of making myself disappear. I want to make fire," she grumbled. She lifted her hand to the fireplace, thinking of fire. Motioning her hand, she tried to smother the content flames. They sputtered and continued to burn. "Why can’t I get it?" "You try too hard," Servaes answered quietly, looking up from the book he read quietly. He was used to the solitude and endless hours, so he was not as disturbed by them as she was. He could see that Hathor was fidgety. To her, a week cooped up in one room was a long time, especially with so many powers growing in her body. He could well imagine her form bursting to try them out. "How long do you think they will leave us here?" she asked, moving restless around the bearskin rug in circles. "Maybe we should try to tunnel out." Servaes chuckled. It was not the first time she mentioned the idea. Going to the door, she pushed on it. It didn’t budge. Already they tried moving it together to no avail. The wood was too thick, reinforced with unbendable steel. Servaes had informed her it was made by vampiric craftsmen and would be unbreakable. "They might not come back," he said truthfully. "It is hard to say. But my guess is that more than likely


Ginger will grow angered at not feeling one of us dead. She will tear through the wall and confront us. She has quite a temper." Hathor leaned against the door, tired from trying to open it. They had both felt Ginger’s restless presence each night at dusk, joined by her two lackeys. And they felt her outrage as she left them once more inside. Servaes perceived his powers to weaken slightly, like they did when he didn’t drink of blood. But after the fourth day his body mellowed, plateaued in a state of contented rest. "We could trick her," Hathor said suddenly, coming forward. "When she comes to the door, just think like you have eaten me, and I will think of nothing." Servaes watched her, doubtful. His eyes roamed over her body. The past week might not have been hard on his mind, but his libido felt differently. Sleeping next to her each night, not being able to touch her as she nestled next to him, was driving him to severe distraction. Biting his lip, he ran his tongue over the tip of his fang thoughtfully. Hathor turned to the fire, mumbling and motioning her hand. The orange glow licked over her body, outlining the slender form. Her bare feet curled in the bearskin rug once again as she began her circular travels. Absently, Servaes asked, "Is it so bad being trapped with me? It has only been a week. How will you feel after the first hundred years?" The idea brought him up short. He had been trying not to think on it. He was so happy with her, content to sit and read to her, content to spend all his time next to her. But, as the nights wore on, she didn’t speak of loving him. She didn’t speak of their eternity together. So he didn’t speak of it either. Did she regret her decision already? Servaes swallowed nervously when she didn’t answer. He set his book aside and sat up. Hathor’s hand fell to her side at the question. How could she explain that it was torture for her to be with him? She couldn’t touch him. She couldn’t make love to him. Her body screamed with intense longing to do just that. It was a longing deeper and more arduous than that of her human life. She felt it acutely, within every movement in her vampiric being. Beyond the physical ache, her heart also began to twinge. He never told her he loved her. She sensed it in him, but he never said it. Hathor began to doubt the emotion even existed in him. Maybe he was lonely, she’d tell herself. The idea did little to comfort. She wondered if he changed her to have a companion and friend to spend the days with. If he didn’t love her as she did him, then that was even worse than spending the eternity apart. Forever was a long time not to have your heart returned to you. Servaes came slowly to her side, touching the velvet skin of her cheek. Hathor turned her gaze to him, eyes wide with wonder and desire. She tried to smile but couldn’t make her lips move. Servaes wanted to probe her with his questions, wanted to force the words of love from her. But he couldn’t. Even if he could control her, he wouldn’t. So instead of asking her with his words, he leaned over to ask her with his lips. Lightly, his mouth brushed against hers. The kiss was so gentle and tender that her knees weakened, and she fell into his broad chest. Servaes’ chest reverberated with a manly chuckle -- full of masculine pride at his easy accomplishment. His arms wrapped around her waist holding her to him. His lips never left hers.


Hathor moaned, her hands gliding into his hair. She kissed him deeply, saying with her body what she didn’t dare say with her heart. She wouldn’t burden him with her love if he didn’t ask for it. She had said it once. That was enough. Servaes lowered her to the soft rug. He made love to her with an agonizing slowness, memorizing every curve of her body with his hands. The power she felt surged though her, propelling her further than ever before. When they met their release, they could feel the earth moving beneath them and the stars swimming in the far off heavens.

Chapter Twenty Three

Servaes held Hathor to the crook of his naked body, completely sated. His limbs curled around her, facing the fire as it continued to crackle around them. Hathor turned in his embrace. Facing his chest, she ran her fingers over the smooth proud folds. Peeking up at him, she gave a light moan of contentment. The sound drifted around Servaes like the purring of a kitten. Lifting her mouth, she kissed him on the chin. Servaes opened his eyes to glance at her. He returned a kiss to her forehead. His hands glided over her naked back. A wicked smile settled on his features. "Mmm," Hathor moaned. She giggled, as his fingers grew emboldened. She didn’t stop his exploration as he roamed over her hip and down her thigh. She moved against his hand. His fingers were a bit chilled, but still not as deathly cold as they should have been. Hathor leaned up to kiss his awaiting mouth. Instantly, his tongue ran over her lips, parting her mouth to a deep caress. Hathor’s mouth mimicked his movements. Her tongue ran over his teeth, feeling the edges. Suddenly, she pulled back. His teeth were not as pointed. "What?" she began in confusion. She lifted her hand to touch his face. Her finger began to dig within his mouth. Servaes jerked his head back. "What --" he said to echo her confusion. His words were cut off by the sound of the door crashing open. Hathor’s eyes enlarged in terror at the noise. She turned to the opened doorway to see Ginger--her hands on her hips, her eyes glowing a demonic red. Seeing the naked lovers on the floor, the vampiress howled viciously. Servaes was instantly on his feet, unmindful of his nudity. Hathor was more modest, reaching to pull her shirt over her head as fast as she could. Then, in one movement, she pulled on her underwear and jeans at the same time. By the time she made it to her feet, Servaes was blocking Ginger from her view. Hathor stayed hidden behind him, confused.


"I want to see her," Ginger spat. Her eyes roamed quickly over Servaes’ naked form. She was unaffected. "Why?" Servaes asked. "You have no business with her." "You masked her scent somehow. You try to trick us. She is still human. And I demand her death by the will of the others." Ginger tried to move to the side to see Hathor. She was afforded only a glimpse of her pale face before Servaes again blocked her. "You have been feeding on her." "She is vampire, Ginger. If you touch her, you will die. It is our law," Servaes stated quietly. "I made her. She is mine." "If she were vampire, you or she would be dead!" Ginger hissed. Her eyes glowed with a fanatical raging light. Her lips curled and snarled. Her mouth opened to reveal stark white teeth. "She is pale from blood loss. But is she is not dead. She is human. A changed vampire couldn’t have lasted so long." "Begone, Ginger," Servaes said. He felt Hathor as she came up next to him. She handed him his pants. He kept his eyes on Ginger as he tugged them on. When he again stood, Hathor took up his arm at his side. She stared defiantly at Ginger. "I am one of you," Hathor said quietly. "Now leave me be." "Let me see your mouth," Ginger hissed. "Show me your power if you are like me." Hathor felt her teeth beneath her gums. Her fangs had yet to grow. As to powers, she hadn’t had a chance to test them. Hiding her fear, she said, "I will not perform parlor tricks for you. If you want a grinder monkey to entertain you, go find Lamar or Vincent. They will be happy to delight." Hathor felt Servaes’ body shake softly with a chuckle, though he said nothing. Ginger’s face turned red. Suddenly, Lamar and Vincent were at her side. They sneered out their hatred towards the couple. "You dare call me a monkey, blood being!" Vincent hissed. "Then be afraid of me," Servaes warned in his most menacing tone. He pushed Hathor behind his back. "You are lucky I do not kill you for your insults to me." "We have had enough of you, Servaes, and your high-handed ways. If the council will not act, then we will!" Ginger shot forward, straight for Servaes’ naked midsection. She slammed into his skin, knocking him back. Vincent and Lamar soon joined the fray. Their nails jutted like claws as they tore forth to help Ginger subdue Servaes. Hathor didn’t think. She leapt onto Ginger’s back, grabbing the woman by her hair. Ginger screamed, calling for more help. Suddenly, the bedchamber was overflowing with vampires as they poured in through the passageway. Servaes fought bravely, swinging his fists, kicking his bare feet into hard stomachs. But he hadn’t eaten in a week and was weakened greatly from the lack of nourishment. A dozen hands pinned him to the ground, binding his ankles with heavy iron chains. His eyes searched in the firelight for Hathor. He found her, knocked unconscious. Vincent straddled her body, binding her hands with a thick rope. A howl escaped his lips, echoing throughout the passageways into the Vampire Club. The attackers didn’t heed his cry. Their jealous hearts hated Servaes for finding happiness, especially Ginger, who had


seen the woman first. Vincent threw Hathor over his shoulder. He walked easily behind the others as they dragged Servaes by his feet. Servaes’ back scraped on the ground as he grabbed for the jutting stones along the floor. The hard, rock floor dug into his flesh. His skin bumped and splashed in puddles of stale water. The vampires didn’t slow their progress, nor did Servaes’ struggling hamper their evil purpose. Ginger led the way, pushing open doors in her fury. She guided around twists and turns, through cobwebbed halls and inclined arches. Finally, she stopped. Turning her head sharply, a wicked and cruel grin formed on her mouth. Motioning to her followers, she stepped into a round courtyard blocked by a circle of stone. She sniffed defiantly at the night air. "Tie them," she commanded. Her stiff British accent clipped hard over Servaes’ ears. The move had torn up his back. He felt himself bleeding into the grass beneath him, leaving a trail as he was dragged into the center of the ring. Joyfully, she yelled at her fellow vampires, "I promised you some sport! Now you will see how powerless these old relics have become." Moaning, Servaes used his last bit of energy to fight their hold on his arms. It was not enough. They strapped his limbs to the ground, staking him in the form of a cross. He could feel the night wind whisking through his hair, caressing his skin that had so recently held Hathor’s embrace. Hearing a thud, he turned his head to the side. Hathor’s pale face lay peacefully, her chin turned towards him. A thin river of blood ran from her parted lips and a matching crimson blob marred her temple. He tried to will her to awaken, but she wouldn’t move. Vincent staked down her bound hands, fastening them like his own. Lamar tightly joined her feet. When they finished their grim task, the vampires began to leave, trailing from the circled mound of grass back into the tunnels. Ginger came to stand above him. She placed a foot by each side of his hips. Then, lowering herself to sit on his waist, she leaned over to stroke his hair. "It looks as if I am not the one to be banished, my lord," she chuckled. "Face it. The old ones have become too old. You have grown soft. We are the new leaders of the tribes. We don’t need you. We don’t need anyone to govern us." "You will die for this," Servaes whispered back. His body held completely still, knowing he couldn’t fight her. "There are laws." "We care not for your sacred laws, Marquis." Ginger leaned down. Closing her eyes softly, she brushed her lips against his. Without pulling away, she said, "You got too greedy, Servaes. You wanted her all to yourself. Well, now you shall have her in death. But I give you a gift. You will see the sunrise together." "Argh!" Servaes lurched, bucking her up off his body. His eyes glared an immortal black. He bared his teeth trying to bite up at her. Ginger quickly recovered her composure to sneer down at him. She turned, whipping her head in the wind to look at Hathor. Quietly, she murmured to the unconscious woman, "As for you human, you will see your beloved Servaes die. Then tomorrow night, I will come back for you. You will be mine." "You will not touch her!" Servaes hollered. Lazily Ginger walked back into the tunnel, ignoring him. She shut the old iron door behind her, not


bothering to lock it. Servaes turned back to Hathor. Her eyes were open, tears glistened in their depths. She tried to smile for him, but couldn’t. "Hathor," he began. The name was like a sorrowful plea. "I --" "Shhh," she broke in. She shook her head, her eyes glowing with the fine mist of her vampiric life. "I regret nothing. If I am to die, let it be with you." Servaes didn’t answer. There was nothing he could say. Hathor turned her eyes to the sky. Quietly, she whispered, "Such a beautiful night." "Oui, mademoiselle," Servaes admitted. He looked at her face, desperate to help her and unable to do so. He turned his face to the sky. Closing his eyes, he used the last of his strength to call out to Jirí, to anyone who might help them.

**** Hathor knew the moment Servaes passed out next to her. She could hear his mind calling out. She didn’t talk to him or interrupt him. Then, when his thoughts stopped and his head lulled to the side, she tried to call out as he had. She pulled against her bonds, praying for a way to break through them. The ties were too tight. They didn’t move. She watched the moon travel over the earth, slow in its progression. She heard the call of birds, lonely so late at night. The stars twinkled. One shot across the heavens. She could see nothing beyond the enclosure but the sky. As the hours wore on, she grew tired, unable to direct her haphazard thoughts. She could feel dawn approaching. It prickled her skin in warning. Servaes was still asleep. She willed him to stay as such. If death was to be painful, she would rather he not experience it. She studied his face for a long moment. Then, when she turned her attention back to the sky, she noticed a lone figure crouching on the low roof. She froze when she recognized his green cloak sweeping about him in glorious folds and waves. "You," her voice cracked hoarsely. At her notice, the man stood. He took a step off the stone jutting up from the ground, marking the top of the enclosure. He walked with leisurely patience, forward over the grass. She couldn’t see his face beneath the hood, but she detected a smile. "You have changed, little one," he whispered. He didn’t appear to move, but Hathor felt as if a hand caressed her face softly. Hathor nodded, mesmerized by his words. She caught the glint of his green emerald on his hand as he moved it lazily through the air. Then, with gentle swiftness, she felt his cheek brush and press against her own in a tender caress. When he pulled away just as fast, she could see the subtle shine of his gaze as he studied her. "I smell him in you." Hathor nodded. "And I smell you in him. Very strange," he admitted.


"Who are you?" she asked. "I imagine I am your great-grandfather," he mused. He leaned over Servaes to study his face. Seeing him completely asleep, the vampire removed his hood. Hathor stared at him. His long black hair was straight, reflecting the deepest color of midnight. The locks disappeared beneath the green cloak. His eyebrows arched rigidly on his pale skin, his lips carved as if from stone. He had a long aristocratic nose, very defined. As he looked at her, waiting for her to take in his face, he studied her from solemn, exhausted brown eyes. "Will you help us?" she asked. "Yes, little one," he stated. "I will help you. Your blood has helped me." He leaned over, unfastening Servaes’ restraints with barely an effort. Then doing the same for her, he lifted her from the ground. She gazed lovingly at Servaes before turning back to him. "Thank you," she whispered. Her eyes shone with gratification. "He is changed, Hathor," the vampire whispered. His hands rose to touch her cheek, his caress on her skin like that of a lover. The length of his nails raked over her neck and shoulder. Hathor was enthralled. He looked nothing like the skeletal creature that had come to her on the balcony. Quietly, he said, "Something is not the same in him. The young ones do not sense it. They are stupid, ridiculous fools. But I can smell it on him, and I can smell it in you. Tell him when he awakes. Tell him he is different, special." "Will he be all right?" she asked. The vampire chuckled. He nodded slowly. A strand of his hair escaped his cloak, pulling forward to wrap around his face. "Yes, my little one. He will be fine. But he is altered from what he once was. The others may not understand it." Hathor stood transfixed. She could feel the old power in the being before her. He could take her over completely if he so chose to do so. His pale lips came forward, brushing along her mouth in a soft kiss. His eyes closed briefly. His lips held still along her mouth. Slowly, he pulled back to gaze at her once more. "Why do you help us when everyone else seems to want us dead?" she whispered. He could feel her fear. But he also felt her bravery. "Only these fools want you dead," he said, motioning to the door leading down to the vampire den. His gaze never left hers. She could see his eyes turning green to probe within her. She could feel him gliding with ease through her mind, plucking whatever secret he wanted from her. Finding her fear, he drew it forth inside of her, focusing on it. "You will worry no more about the ones inside. They will not be coming out again." "What would you do?" she asked, breathless. He drew the little bead of her fear out of her until all she felt was a gentle calm. She received no answer to her question. But she could see the subtle shift in the vampire’s face. He was going to kill the young ones -- all of them. However, for some reason he was sparing Servaes and herself.


The vampire let go of her face, drawing back like the drifting of linens on the breeze. His cloak folded around him. The door behind him opened. A small corner of his lips curled at the side, devilish and handsome though deadly in intent. I spare you because you are my children. I punish them because they broke our laws. Hathor heard his distinct answer to her unasked question clearly in her head. She shivered as the cloak folded in on itself, disappearing with him into the darkness. As soon as he was gone, Hathor rushed to Servaes’ side. She shook him gently. "Get up, Servaes, hurry." Servaes moaned, looking up at her face. "Are we dead?" he asked with a tired moan. "Yes," she answered with a happy smile filled with hope. "Now get up before we burst into flames." Servaes instantly sat up. His eyes narrowed in confusion. "I’ll explain later. Now, hurry. We have to get our coffin and get out of here." Hathor tugged on his arm. "There isn’t much time." Servaes nodded, coming to his feet. Taking control, he led her by her hand over the top of the mound. Hathor glanced at the door leading back within the passageways. Servaes ignored it, refusing to risk going back in. He led her silently past trees and stone buildings. Then, coming to a graveyard, he whisked along old gravestones finally stopping at a mausoleum. "What are we doing here?" Hathor asked, frightened. He turned to her, motioning for silence. I hid my spare coffin in here after I left your house. Servaes motioned for her to stay. He disappeared behind the old gravestones only to reappear carting his coffin behind him. Help me. Hathor pulled a side of the coffin, lifting it in her arms. She could see the strained lines of Servaes’ face. She could see that he was weak. "Do you need to feed?" she asked him. "We can stop if we have to." "No," he answered a little too sharply, leading her through the streets. He concentrated on hiding them from the eyes of others. Progress was slower than usual, but finally they made it to the front lawn of Kennington House. Servaes collapsed on the front step. Hathor hurriedly made her way to the front door. It was locked. Pulling the cord, she rang the bell frantically, trying to wake her aunt. "Here," Servaes mumbled, tired. He lifted his hand to unlock the latch. The door swung open. Hathor peered inside. Just then, the light switch came on. "What --?" Georgia began, half asleep. The woman saw her niece’s pale face. An immense smile broke out on her features as she rushed forward. She pulled Hathor into her arms. "My dear, you’re alive! I was so worried."


"Georgia, we need your help, please. The sun will be rising soon. We need a place to rest." Hathor pulled her aunt back from her, turning to direct her attention behind her to where Servaes sat wearily on the step. Georgia detected the change in her niece, but was not scared. The old woman noticed the coffin with a start. "Yes, yes, of course," the woman answered. She waved her hands to usher them inside. "Hurry, come on." Hathor nodded in appreciation. Stopping, she sensed something familiar about her aunt. She turned to look at her in curiosity. "Come on, Hathor," she said. "Look at him. Help him up." Hathor obeyed, going to Servaes. He waved off her attentions, standing on his own. Then, lifting one end of the coffin, he waited for Hathor to grab the other side. They hauled it into the house. Hathor led the way into the formal dining room, barely looking at the large table as they moved the coffin past. Georgia shrieked behind them. Suddenly, the other side of the coffin fell, jerking her arms down. She turned to find Servaes on the floor, unconscious. The coffin splintered with its hard landing. Georgia rushed to the vampire’s side. She pressed her wrist against his forehead to feel for a temperature before pulling away, realizing he wouldn’t have one. Hathor was immediately next to him. She brushed back his hair. "What is wrong with him?" Georgia asked, frantic. "I don’t know. He hasn’t eaten for days," she asserted. "Should I --" her aunt began to offer her arm with a worried frown. "No," Hathor said, thinking of the old creature’s words. Servaes was different now. "I don’t think he will eat." Tears entered Hathor’s eyes as she stroked back his hair. She could feel the exhilaration of the approaching sun. She opened the lid, revealing the torn and bloodstained satin inside of the black coffin. "We’ll just have to sleep here," Hathor stated. She pulled under Servaes’ arms, fighting to get him into safety. Georgia helped what she could. Fitting him inside, Hathor whispered, "I will see you tomorrow at dusk. Put a thick blanket over us in case the coffin is broken. No sunlight can get in. Don’t let anyone in the house and whatever you do, don’t open the lid." "Yes," Georgia whispered with a hurried nod. Her face shone with concern and love for the two vampires as she rushed to get the blankets. Hathor closed the lid over their bodies. Servaes’ eyes still hadn’t opened. She pulled his body close to her, exhausted. He didn’t stir. She lovingly placed her hand on his chest, feeling for the faint beating of his heart. Closing her eyes, she let loose a weary sigh and tried to find her rest.


Chapter Twenty Four

The sun perched its head above the side of the earth, casting about the orange glow of a beautiful day over the city of London. Its life-giving golden rays hugged the storefront windows, glaring off the shiny panes. Light glittered over the water of the Thames, touched the majestic lines of the many bridges, and lit up every roadway and turnabout with brilliantly contrasted shadows. But, for some, the crisp morning was not magnificent. It was death. Ginger’s eyes rounded in surprise, her scream waking all of those around her from their mesmerized trance. Her body pressed desperately into the pile of vampires she rested upon. Those beneath her fought to be free. Their claws dug into her back, tearing through her flesh until her blood spilled down over them and she couldn’t move. Lamar, in a panic, shot straight up from the ground, bursting into a ball of flames as a ray of morning touched his skin. He flew through the bluing sky like a fireball, exploding into ash with the flair of a yellow popping firecracker. The ash of his remains fluttered to the ground like falling snow. Ginger screamed again, crawling her way through the haphazard bodies around her in the deserted street. As the warm globe streamed higher to chase its gleaming death after the vampiress’ feet, flaming corpses shot out in all directions. Pale skin burned red, bubbling and melting from bones made of dust. Some lighted afire and others burst apart like a terrible explosion. The feathery ash of their remains drifted to the earth, dusting over lampposts and stone, sweeping across the alleys and statues. The last of their mournful shrieks were carried away on the wind, forever silenced and forgotten. Ginger howled again in agony, scrambling back from the sun, trying to find solace in the shadow of a tall building. But in her haste she crawled too far, coming out from beneath the dimness into the sunlight. The sun found her face. She couldn’t escape. The skin peeled back from her bones, like the rotting decay of old fruit. Her head loosened from her shoulders, rolling back on the pavement, blazing with fire. Her body puffed into a cloud of ash, disappearing into nothingness. Before the full globe had risen completely to claim the heavens, all but one died a fiery death. Ash and dust covered over the city street like a thick blanket, flowing over the bricks like water as the wind brushed up the debris. Vincent was the only survivor, crawling from the pile into the shade of the alley, up the side of a brick wall. The sun lit against his foot, decaying his leg until only a bloody stump remained. But his body survived, his arms pulling him into the ceiling of the passageway leading into the Vampire Club. Scrambling down to the tunnels below the street, Vincent found his agonizing rest within the tomb of Ginger’s pink coffin. By the time the human mortals awoke to bear witness in the streets, the ground divulged no evidence to the deed but for the settling of gray dust that couldn’t be disconcerted from that which was carried there by the wind.


**** Hathor felt a lurch beneath her hand, jolting her awake. Her lids were heavy, exhausted. She moved her palm over Servaes’ chest to feel his heart beating. It was a scant rhythm compared to the normally strong thud. Turning her weary eyes, she saw him clearly in the darkness. His lips were parted, his lids closed. She could feel his heart slowing drastically beneath her, winding down like a breaking toy. "Servaes," came her tortured whisper. She pulled closer to him, lifting her hand to shake his face. His eyes fluttered. Crying, she asked, "What’s wrong with you?" "I," he began. He closed his eyes and swallowed. "Something happened when I changed you. I changed myself." "Why didn’t you tell me something was wrong?" she questioned desperately. Her hands flew over him, helplessly trying to find a way to save him. "Here, take my blood, just enough to last through the day." "I," his voice trailed off into a slight whisper of air escaping his lungs. His words were a cracked rustle, as he whispered, "I am dying, chéri." "No," Hathor cried out desperately, shaking him when he would close his eyes. Unnatural tears poured from her loving gaze. She could feel what he said was true. With each word she uttered, the more desperately she wept until her words were an excruciating whisper, "Stay with me. Stay awake. You can’t go. You can’t leave me alone -- not now! Not after all we have survived. Servaes, please, I can’t live without you. Drink from me." "I cannot," he whispered back, unmoving. She watched his face gray with dust. Hathor was afraid to touch him, scared that he would disappear into a cloud of mist if she pressed a finger to him. "Call out to Jirí once it is dark. He will help you." "Don’t talk like that. You just haven’t eaten. You need blood." She didn’t even stop to think before she pressed her wrist to his mouth, smothering it against his lips. His skin felt soft, too soft. Insistently, she ordered, "Take mine. Bite it." "I cannot," he whispered. "My fangs are sunken into my mouth. Your blood must be too weakened to sustain me now. You have not eaten either." "Then I will find you someone," she declared in a hurry. "You just hold on." "No," Servaes protested, as she made a move to lift the lid. His hands trembled as he lifted them up to her. His eyes pleaded with her to stop, to come back. "You cannot … the sunlight. It will kill you." "I have to try. You will not last until dusk." Hathor ignored his protesting and the feeble attempt of his skeletal hand to stay her. She cracked open the lid, fearful of what she would find. Seeing that Georgia had indeed covered them with several thick blankets, she sighed in halfhearted relief. She crawled out as carefully as she could. Before she shut the lid, she heard Servaes whisper, "Je t’aime, Hathor. I love you." A gasp left Hathor’s lips with a cry of pain. She felt moisture stinging in her eyes, eyes that were not


supposed to cry. The tears kissed her cheeks like stars. Her gaze glowed eerily with her power. Nodding, she whispered back, "I do not regret a moment. I love you, Servaes. Hold on. I will find a way to help you." Hathor shut the lid, pulling the blankets carefully around her. It was slow moving as she tried to make her way along the floor. She couldn’t lift her head to look about, and she couldn’t hear her aunt. She could feel the sunlight trying to peek into her darken void. It burned into the blanket, warming her skin with a fiery heat. Hathor felt Servaes’ body convulse weakly in the coffin. A single thread of emotion bound them together. She felt his death coming. His body was slowly turning to grave dust, and she felt her world ending with him. "Georgia!" Hathor yelled, her hoarse voice rising in muffled desperation through the thick blanket. In sudden insight, she sensed the woman and followed her instincts to the gardens. Hathor slowly progressed through the kitchen, crawling to the screen door that led to the back yard. Feeling the door give, she pushed forward with her head to hit it open. She crouched carefully down on her feet to pass over the sun-warmed stairs, holding open the door with her head. Her limbs trembled, feeble in their movements. She could detect the damning heat of the bright sun on her back, soaking dangerously deeper into the blanket, searching for a hole in which to sting her. The darkness surrounded her like a black blessing. Wretchedly, she yelled, "Georgie, help me!" The screen door slammed shut behind her with an unsuspected crash. The wood frame snagged the end of her blanket as it bounced. Hathor’s feet tripped blindly on the steps. She felt her body pitch forward as if in slow motion. The blanket ripped from her grasp, falling off to the side. "Georgie!" Hathor screamed desperately, as the sun fell onto her face. She could feel the rays burning her skin, penetrating her body as it was exposed to it. Hathor weakly hit the ground, rolling. "Hathor?!" she heard her aunt screech in alarm. "Hathor what are you doing!" Hathor’s body began to convulse. She waited for fire, waited for flames and torture. She could feel Georgia pulling her into her arms. The sun beat down on her flesh, warming it. Her aunt tried to shield the sun from her, covering Hathor with her body. She threw her wide-brimmed hat over Hathor’s face. The light trailed through the straw in small beads of concentrated energy. Georgia’s body shook, powerless to help stop the onslaught of death. Fear and helplessness flowed through the old woman’s veins. Hathor’s pale skin became red, spreading with a burn all over her delicate features. The girl hollered out in pain. "Help Servaes," Hathor groaned in desperation, as her world started to fade into a burning black. Her demonic eyes rolled back into her head, sinking with despair into her lids. With a last croaking whisper, she whispered fervently, "Promise me." "Yes. Oh, Hathor," cried Georgia. Hathor’s body went limp, falling with the weighted mass of a corpse. Georgia struggled, her hands moving over her niece’s flesh to continue to block the sun. She was too late. The old woman cried out bitterly as she tried to gather the dead girl into her arms.


**** Servaes opened his eyes with a piercing yell. He felt the sun on Hathor’s skin, burning her. He knew it was useless for her to try and help him. Now she was paying the price for her folly. He felt her mind reach out to him, crying to him in her pain. He felt her burning flesh as if it were his own. He couldn’t go to her, couldn’t answer her cry. His body was too weakened to push up. He lay as helpless as a babe in its cradle, unable to fight the flames as they licked around him. Then, he detected silence. Her mind closed completely. Her emotions stopped. Tears found his eyes. He was too drained to move, lest he would have crawled out into the sun to join her. The tears wept over his face, falling back to his temples to dampen his hair. He knew he was dying too, decaying into the ashes of death. He lost his will to live. Without Hathor, he was nothing. He didn’t want to go on. Closing his eyes, he refused to fight any longer. He decided to let death have him. "I love you, ma petite," his last breath hissed, as his body journeyed to join hers.

**** Colors began to swirl in the darkness, faded at first, growing brighter as time ticked past. The image of the sun, bright and glorious, rose beneath the couple’s dead lids. The black bird from their dreams came to them, perching high on a tree limb in front of the sun. The bird seemed to smile at them, before squawking and taking again to flight. Once in the air, the bird became encased in stone, falling from the heavens in an ancient rune. The rune landed in the grass, breaking apart to nestle safely in softness.

**** Georgia pulled her hat from Hathor’s face. She rocked her niece in her arms, affectionately touching the pale beauty of her skin. The old woman wept loudly, shouting her pain on a wail to the sky. Her body shook with a violent force, her tears streamed over her face. Shaking her head in her grief, she felt Hathor’s chilled skin begin to heat. With a loud sniff, her eyes shot to her niece’s face. The pale features warmed from the cold blue of the dead to a soft glowing orange. The detection of it was faint at first, swirling over the tip of her nose. Georgia blinked to see if it was real. Slowly the vampiress’ blue lips began to fill with red, painted as if by an artist’s brush. Hathor gasped. Her back arched off the ground and pulled away from her aunt’s hands. Her eyes shot open, the blue depths filling with vibrant spring-like colors that shot out of her. A light appeared around her body, a soft barely detectable glow. Her voice spilled from her throat in a high pitch wheeze. And then she took breath. Falling to the earth, she turned her gaze to Georgia. Her eyes glowed like the undead, but her skin was the color of life. The sun shot through her flesh, surging with shaking energy through her body, shooting her like a ray of life with its warmth. Hathor again surged up, bucking violently from the ground before falling with visible fatigue to the soft grass. Her eyes cleared. She looked up at the bright fall sky, unseasonably warm. Confusion and surprise passed over her face. Glancing at Georgia in wide-eyed wonder, she saw the


wrinkled face beam with teary pleasure. "Servaes," Hathor gasped suddenly. She shot up from her back, running with swiftness into the house. Georgia was right behind her. Hathor went to the coffin, pulling off the blankets. "Wait, Hathor. What if you kill him? He might not react to the sun the same way." Georgia hesitated in her efforts to help. Gulping, she studied the revived girl. "I have to try," Hathor returned desperately. "Already he is dying. I must do something." Closing her eyes, a prayer on her trembling lips, Hathor threw back the lid. Servaes’ pale face was hit with the rays of the sun filtering in through the drapes. He didn’t move. "Help me get him outside," Hathor entreated. Her hands were instantly on his decaying masculine form. His skin was cold. "We must get him into the sun." Georgia had her reservations, but helped Hathor pull him out. Hathor’s limbs surged with force, and she lifted him over her shoulder without Georgia’s assistance. She didn’t have time to wonder at her great strength as she rushed him out the back door. Hitting the bright pull of the sun, she eased him onto his back. His pale skin was encased in the light. For a moment, nothing happened. Hathor fell to her knees, mumbling frantic pleas, words of love and encouragement to him. She grabbed his face willing his eyes to open as hers had. "Servaes, wake up. Wake up, Servaes. Open your eyes. Open your eyes!" Hathor shook him violently. "Look at me, damn you!" "Ah!" Servaes gasped. His eyes burst with the light. His body writhed and moaned with pain. Hathor watched, a shiver running up her spine. She glanced to Georgia horrified. The woman ran to her, pulling her back from the twisting and writhing being. His hand reached out grasping for a hold in the air. His body trembled violently with the assault of the daylight. His flesh appeared to pull and melt around him, but didn’t drip from his bones. Hathor listened to his tortured screams, paralyzed with fear. Desperation shone on her features. "Servaes!" she screamed. Her hands went to reach for him, searching blindly through tears. "What have I done?" A trail of blood came from his pale lips, moving down over the side of his smooth jaw. Then his screams stopped. His body drooped. When he didn’t move, Hathor crawled slowly forward. She reached out a finger, probing his body. It didn’t move. Feeling his chest, she couldn’t detect a heartbeat. Her own heart raced frantically out of control. Her tears dripped from her eyes to his face, spilling from her troubled gaze to his cheeks. Her love for him tore throughout her body in heart-wrenching surety. Leaning to him, she pressed her quivering lips to his. Closing her eyes, she cried against him, not moving away. Servaes’ mouth grew warm beneath her touch. Drawing back, she waited in wonderment as his features filled with color. His skin shaded with a bronze beauty. His lips darkened, his eyelids faded to a tired purple. When his eyes opened, slowly blinking in the bright light, Hathor saw the soft brown orbs of a man she had seen in a king’s garden long ago.


"Servaes," she gasped in wonderment. The whisper was barely audible. Transfixed in her daze, she couldn’t move, only stare. Georgia gasped and sniffed behind them. Her fingers met with stone. Glancing down, she picked up two pieces of a broken rune. The breeze was light and warm as it caressed over their skin. The ground moved with the rustling of fallen leaves. Hathor shivered, afraid that she was dreaming, afraid that if she touched him he would disappear into thin air. Slowly his eyes cleared, searching the sky as he slowly sat up from the ground. The sun shone over him like a baptism to his new birth. He looked around in quiet wonderment, his eyes finally landed on Hathor’s rosy cheeks and puffy eyes. First the brown depths smiled at her, followed by the slow curl of his darkened lips. As the smile grew, so did the flash of his teeth, fangless. Hathor shook her head, unable to believe her eyes. Her breath came in a pant. Tears blurred her vision. Slowly, she lifted her hand. She reached through the air for him. His warm palm met hers, caressed by light. Feeling that he was real, her shoulders slumped in relief, and she cried harder. Hathor fell forward into his awaiting arms, weeping joy and love against his broad chest. Her quaking fingers moved sightlessly over his hair, his back, feeling him. She couldn’t believe he was alive. Pulling back happily, she whispered, "How?" "I do not know," he murmured, taking in her beauty outlined by the sun he hadn’t seen for centuries. Her eyes flashed with the power he had given her, but they were absent of the curse of death. "Are we human?" she asked in awe. "Are we free?" "I do not know," he said again. For the time, he didn’t care. He leaned forward, pulling her mouth to his. Hathor moaned in happy contentment. She didn’t care either. He was alive and in her arms. Their love was all that mattered. Kissing her thoroughly, he didn’t want to let her go. "Praise the Lord!" shouted Georgia, clapping her hands in excitement. She clutched the rune pieces in her hand. A loud growl sounded around them. Hathor pulled back in shock, looking with wide-eyes at Servaes. His smile faded to be replaced by concern. The growl sounded again low and insistent. "What?" Hathor began, confused. Apprehension again started to surround her features, lining the sides of her eyes. Servaes looked down, grabbing his gut with a look of concern. "I know what that is," beamed Georgia, getting to her feet. She put the broken rune in her pocket, intent on putting it away for safe keeping. The old woman chuckled gleefully. Clapping her hands, she danced towards the house. "I’ll be in the kitchen cooking." "Cooking?" Hathor mouthed, confused, never realizing Georgia had the rune or that there even was one.


Again the growl sounded. Only this time if came from within Hathor. She began to laugh. Servaes eyed her as if she were insane. "It’s your stomach," she whispered, moving to kiss him lightly. She laughed against his mouth. "I suppose it has been a long time since you have eaten." As if to prove her words, his stomach gurgled again. Servaes pressed his hand to his midsection as it twitched. A smirk found his features. He too began to laugh. "You don’t want blood, do you?" she asked. "No, the craving is gone," he admitted. "I’m not sure what I want." Hathor laughed, falling onto her back as he tackled her playfully to the ground. His eyes soaked in everything about her -- her face, her warm eyes, her happy smile. And all of it was bright and beautiful and inviting. It was a balm to his soul. Rolling on his back, he pulled her next to him to stare into the blue cloudless sky. "I lied," he said seriously. Hathor stiffened. "I do know what I want." Hathor giggled, relaxing next to him. His eyes studied the trees weaving in the soft morning air. Kissing his cheek, she asked, "What? I am sure Georgia will cook you anything you ask for." "All I want is you," he murmured next to her hair. Their stomachs growled again, reverberating with their blissful laughter.

**** Servaes refused to go indoors, drawing a new life basking in the sun. Georgia made quick sandwiches with the promise of a great feast that evening to celebrate. Servaes didn’t care, relishing each bite like a child. Everything was so new to him -- the play of light on his hands, the look of the brightly changing leaves as they danced on the trees in spotted beauty. Hathor watched him, smiling like a fool at each of his discoveries. After they ate, Servaes led Hathor over the gardens in the direction of the bench, where they had talked for the first time. Plucking up an orange fall leaf, he handed it to her. Hathor pressed it to her nose like a flower, delighting in the smell of fall. As they strolled, Hathor told him of the mysterious stranger that saved them and of all that he said to her. The leaf twirled thoughtfully in her fingers as she spoke. Weakly, she added, "I felt them dying. He stayed true to his word. Ginger and the others are gone." "I felt it, too. I can still feel it," he admitted. "And this man said he was your great-grandfather?" "Yes," Hathor said, hugging herself to his strong arm. Even in the grim light of the discussion of death, she couldn’t hide her joy. Neither could Servaes. It shone from the inviting, careless depths of his eyes. His handsome face took her breath away as she looked at him. He looked like the handsome stranger who led her through the king’s garden, making her fall in love with him. Only it was better now, because she was given the best of both men--the human and the vampire. "Who do you think it was?"


"I do not know. The only vampire I could call grandfather would be Vladamir, the one who made Jirí. But he has been asleep for centuries. I have never even met him. It is said he will never wake up. The longer they sleep, the less likely it is they will rise." Servaes sighed, turning serious. None of it made sense, yet here he was -- in daylight. "Maybe we will never know," admitted Hathor. They trailed silently over the grass to the cobblestone path. As they neared the fountain, she said, "I felt something else. I know what you did for my aunt. I want to thank you. I didn’t even know she was sick." Servaes nodded but didn’t respond. He led her to the bench by the fountain. Sitting her in the shade, he came next to her. He watched Hathor’s face thoughtfully. His eyes almost looked frightened as he studied her. "What is it?" she asked, alarmed. "Do we need to get you inside?" "I want to ask --" he began. Swallowing nervously, he blurted, "Marry me." "What?" Hathor gasped. It was the last thing she suspected. In her surprise, she bumped her elbow on the stone edge of the bench, cutting it open. "Ouch." "Here let me see," Servaes tenderly leaned over her, his long hair falling over her shoulders as he pulled her elbow up. The small wound healed and faded. Her round eyes widened in amazement. His mouth close to her cheek, he kept his eyes turned down as he nuzzled against her face. Whispering, he asked, "Well?" "Our souls are already married," she murmured, breathing in the smell of him. She closed her eyes, overwhelmed with the power of her feelings. "I would have you belong to me completely," he whispered. His eyes finally swept up to gaze into hers. "Yes, of course I’ll marry you, Servaes." Hathor beamed prettily. Her eyes glowed with the light of a woman in love. They didn’t think of the vampire council, the elders, or of the threat they posed to the newly turned couple. As he leaned in to kiss her, she confessed into his mouth, "But I already belong to you completely."

Chapter Twenty Five

Island of Delos, Cyclades


Jirí faced the forbidding council of tribal leaders. Their pale faces glittered with the orange of the firelight. Theophania lounged over her chair, the metal of her bodice barely hiding her womanly charms. Chara sat in more lady-like repose, her risqué black dress clinging to her slender white form. Andrei busied himself looking at Chara’s cleavage, unabashed. Pietro stared at his feet, ignoring them all. Amon lifted his chin regally with feigned boredom. Vishnu matched his dark look. And Ragnhild scratched his nails absently into his arm, watching the little scratches heal behind the wounds he inflicted. With a sigh, Amon finally decreed, "He is still technically one of us. We must leave him be." "But Servaes is like a mortal now," Vishnu said. "He walks with the day. And he knows our secrets." "Then he is mortal," stressed Theophania. "Vampires cannot walk in day. He has lost the dark gift." Jirí said nothing, having told what he knew. "If he is mortal," Pietro said, drawing the eyes of the council. He continued to stare at the floor in dejection. It was one of the rare times the vampire spoke freely at a meeting in centuries. "Then we shall leave him be. He will be dead after a mortal’s life, but a blink of the eyes to us." "I agree," Chara said. "None of us wish to kill him. I say we leave him unless he poses a threat to us." "Like all things, the evidence will be put down only in the sacred scrolls, hidden safely in the depths of the earth. My people, the tribe of the Vrykolatios will guard the secret. No others will know of it. If it were found out that a vampire has turned human, there would be chaos. Nothing will be made known until it is learned how it was done." "Agreed," the tribal leaders acknowledge in unison. "Fine," Theophania said. "Now, what of this other business in London?" "Twenty-three dead," Jirí stated. "Only the one named Vincent survived." "Was it Servaes?" Amon asked. "No," Jirí stated with smooth self-assurance. "I spoke with Vincent. The others tried to kill Servaes and Hathor. Naturally, he claims to have nothing to do with it. He claims he is innocent." Jirí smiled wryly. Andrei snorted. "They were tied to the ground by stakes that whole night," Jirí continued. "Being changed as they are, they escaped and were not harmed by the sunlight." "Then revenge shall not be taken against Vincent for this," Theophania mused, "being as his crimes were against blood beings." "Any idea how this happened?" Chara inquired, though her eyes were bored. "No," Jirí answered. "The club was not popular with a lot of the older vampires. Methinks there is any


number of them who could have done it, their numbers ranging throughout many of the tribes. More than likely, it had naught to do with Servaes and his woman." "It does not matter," said Amon. His golden ebony skin glistened as he moved. His eyes shone with other concerns. "It was a nest of young ones. We should be glad to be rid of them. They were a constant source of irritation anyway." "Then we shall claim they died from their own stupidity," Ragnhild said. "That is what we will tell others. Jirí, see to it that the rumors are spread." Having decided, the council stood, going to seek their rest. Jirí rose from his seat, walking over to one of the velvet draped doors. He felt a hand on his elbow stopping him. The other members disappeared down the tunneled halls like whispers of dust on the still air. "You know he is not mortal, Jirí," Pietro asserted quietly. His old eyes searched the Moroi leader’s face. "He is a daywalker now -- immortal without our weaknesses." "Yes, I know," Jirí admitted, without surprise. "Will he be a threat to us?" Pietro inquired. He didn’t sound concerned. "No," Jirí answered with confidence. "He will not." "Let the others learn first that there is nothing to fear before you tell them," Pietro murmured. Jirí nodded in agreement. "Or do not tell them at all. This council will do nothing. It never does anything."

**** London

"Will you miss it?" asked Hathor lightly, smiling beautifully at Servaes from the balcony. Her dress was cut from the mid-Victorian period he was so fond of. The white gown was trimmed with light blue ribbons at the neck and sleeves. There were great slashes and sweeps of material forming the wide, full skirt. The satiny fabric swished pleasantly as Hathor moved. Servaes’ personal favorite was the way the tight bodice was corseted to reveal a good amount of peach colored cleavage. The sun was setting over the land. It flashed over her old-fashioned wedding veil, silhouetting Hathor in hues of orange and magenta. Her upswept hair picked up the red tints of the sun, shining like a crown over her flushed features. Servaes stared at his wife in awe, unable to believe that she was completely his -- forever. Servaes wore an evening suit with black velvet cuffs and collar. The black jacket was a stark contrast to his white waistcoat and undershirt. The waistcoat tapered to the hips, the overcoat was fashioned with a short front and long tails in the back. All this was atop straight-cut trousers and plain leather ankle boots with flattened heels. His eyes glowed softly with life, making Hathor’s chest flutter. So much had changed in the days since


their turning. Servaes insisted on a short engagement before marrying her, taking one day to gather their clothing and a preacher. They were married in the back garden with Georgia as their only witness. Servaes flashed across the room at her question, startling her when he was instantly by her side. Her arms automatically lifted to his shoulders to rest against him. She gazed into his soft eyes, growing lost in their tender depths. She lifted her fingers to his hair, brushing a shortened lock back from his face. He had cut his hair short soon after being able. She left hers long. "How did you do that?" she gasped. "You will too in time," he murmured, smiling against her lips as he kissed her. His lungs didn’t rise in breath as he smothered his lips over hers. Lifting his head, his eyes scanned over the distance. He could feel a presence within the trees watching them. Hathor began to turn to follow his gaze. Smiling slightly, he brought her face back around to him. Lightly, he distracted her. "I might even show you how to fly." "Really?" Hathor gasped. She beamed in pleasure. "I can do that?" "Oui," he laughed quietly, holding her close. "We have an eternity together, my love. I can show you many things." "And traveling through time?" she whispered lowly. "Have you figured out that one?" "All I can say is that the Gods must have allowed it," he answered, giving her a wink. "The Gods?" she mused. "Rumors in the vampire world, my love, our second ancestors," Servaes returned. "I’ll tell you about them later. They have no bearing here. And I do not know whether we can be called vampires anymore. Besides, the past does not matter. All I want is right now, here with you." "There is a lot for me to learn, I suppose," Hathor laughed wryly. Her lips curled with a contented smirk. "But will you miss being what you were before me?" "Miss what, drinking blood?" Servaes pulled up her arm. The faint stirrings of a gentle melody drifted on the air. It was a sound only they could hear. He began dancing with her over the balcony. The sun finished setting in the distance, casting them in the shadows of night. "No, chéri, I’ve been dying to try something called a cheeseburger." "I guess there is a lot I can show you too," Hathor giggled. "However, if you keep eating so much, you’re going to get fat, and then I might not want to spend an eternity looking at you." "Never, ma petite," he sighed. He brought her hand to lie over his heart. "Flying is good exercise. Besides, Georgia insists. I don’t wish to be rude" Servaes swirled her higher off the ground, letting them float, and they danced over the vines to the soft garden. The presence in the tree line disappeared. Servaes followed it with his senses until it was completely gone. He didn’t let Hathor detect his concern as he smiled for her. Hathor’s eyes sparkled, reflecting the stars. She gazed at his warm skin, so dark, so beautifully full of life.


"Will you ever get tired of me?" Hathor asked softly, closing the distance between their dancing bodies until it was as if they were one being. "Eternity is a long time." "No, my Marchioness. Whoever controls all of this," Servaes paused to wave his hand, holding fast to hers to encompass the world around them, "must know that we were meant to be together always." "And what of the council?" she questioned, her expression falling. "Will they just let us go?" "I do not know, ma petite," he whispered back. His senses again turned to the trees beneath them. "But whatever they might send, we can handle together." "I felt it, too," she whispered, nodding her head below them to the shadows. "It’s not over, is it?" Servaes’ lips parted with a saddened smile, kissing her deeply as they waltzed across the gardens, through the Italian conservatory, over the tops of endless trees. Hathor sighed, her heart beating forever with his. He didn’t answer her, but they didn’t have a need for words between them. Pulling in close, Hathor let Servaes whisk her across the moonlit breeze. She closed her eyes, feeling his lips leaning in to kiss her with a mind-blowing passion. There were many questions, but they could only be answered with the future, and it did no good to dwell on them now. As they spun, he swept her away into their eternity and into whatever battle that eternity would hold -- for, come what may, they would fight it and they would be together.

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Redeemer Of Shadows

Redeemer Of Shadows

Redeemer Of Shadows