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LENGTH: Full Novel - PLUS
SENSUALITY: Spicy

Cover art (c) Kat Richards 2004
ISBN 1-58608-497-6
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Trade Paperback ISBN 1-58608-704-5
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Rating: Contains graphic sexual content, adult language, and violence.

"Five Stars! With her penchant for creating memorable, immortal characters, Michelle M. Pillow has penned one the darkest yet tormented vampires I have ever had the pleasure to read. With the setting in present day London, there is the constant threat of danger with underlying shocking possibilities. The vampires in the tribe are clearly defined, from those with nothing but evil thoughts to the few who still retain a small amount of human compassion. With the descriptive prose, I could feel, imagine and almost taste all that the characters experienced. REDEEMER OF SHADOWS is one book that will not soon be forgotten, as the atypical characters and noteworthy story line will invade your thoughts long after the last page is read....Ms. Pillow has definitely written a story about a couple who will pull forth deep emotions from the reader. REDEEMER OF SHADOWS will capture your attention until the heart-stopping ending." Amelia Richard, eCataRomance Reviews

"Five Hearts! Michelle Pillow has again shown us what a versatile writer she is. She has now explored the domain of the vampire and has given us a very deep, dark story of vampire love and legend...The plot moves along smoothly and will have you turning the pages in anticipation.... It is not often that this reviewer feels so much while reading a book. This is the first of a new series from Ms. Pillow and this reviewer will certainly be following it with anticipation." Valerie, Love Romances Reviews

"Five Blue Ribbons! From the moment I began to read REDEEMER OF SHADOWS I was completely hooked. Hathor and Servaes were brought face to face with their own beliefs and moral issues, which they struggled to resolve as their relationship developed. Their characters were complex and realistic, and even the most minor characters in the book had depth. Ms. Pillow has provided a unique and sympathetic treatment of the vampire character, and I can honestly say that I have not enjoyed a vampire story this much since reading Anne Rice’s novels. Ms. Pillow has written a book which I found difficult to put down, and I highly recommend it. REDEEMER OF SHADOWS is the first book in the Tribes of the Vampires series, and I can hardly wait until the next one comes out!" Pam Sacknea, Romance Junkies

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."