Marek (Buried Lore Book 1)

by Gemma Liviero

  It was too hard, too great to fight this demon inside of me.

  ‘Come, Marek.’

  And this time I did.

  Oleander led me to the west wing and to a room. Inside was a man around my father’s age. His head wobbled from side to side as if he was sleeping, and then I saw the sticky ooze on his collar. I leaned forward to see bite marks in his neck. I drew back but Oleander was close behind me, restricting any hasty exit.

  ‘All it takes is the first taste,’ she said, ‘then everything gets easier.’

  The man’s eyes opened and he tried to focus. He looked drunk and disoriented but there were still traces of terror in the way he gripped the sides of the chair.

  ‘Not like this,’ I muttered, but Oleander took my meaning for something else.

  ‘Yes, perhaps you’re right. The thrill of the hunt is always better. This is too easy for you and me.’

  My eyes never swayed from Oleander’s golden wavy hair, which flew free that evening, as I followed her running through the forest. I could barely keep up with her. Her small feet glided effortlessly across the uneven ground as if she was weightless.

  We approached a small hut in a forest clearing. Geese and chickens scattered in pens as we arrived. Oleander peered through a crack in the wooden slats. A man sat by the fire. He had fallen asleep and I could read his dreams. He had pictures of a woman and child ill in bed with fever. Oleander’s eyes widened with intent and I could sense that she would enter.

  ‘Oleander, no!’ I beseeched, the ravenous spasms intensifying. ‘I must find an animal.’ But then I remembered the wolf with human thoughts and I could not bear even the thought of killing animals.

  ‘Marek, you cannot fight this with animal blood. Sooner or later you will find their souls both useless and tasteless. If you want to survive, you must feed on the souls of humans.’ She turned to the window and whispered. ‘You are spared tonight, old man.’

  I ran from her into the forest and she followed me. I retched into the snow and my sweating brow felt like it was caving in.

  Oleander’s small hand rested on my shoulder. ‘Marek. Trust me. The choice of what you are was not yours the day you were born. You are what you are or you die.’

  ‘Then let me die alone here in the forest.’

  ‘I cannot, Marek. I am not your enemy. You must open your mind and let me help you. I will teach you everything.’

  Her words were hypnotic and I found myself following her once more, though I could no longer walk very fast. I did not know where we were headed and I was too sick to ask. In the distance was candlelight from another smaller town. A man hammered metal in his workshop at the entrance and we strolled by masquerading as humans.

  We walked among them, the imposters that we were. I could smell their blood and my stomach lurched in response. People looked at me strangely. We were better dressed than most. It was obvious that we were from out of town.

  ‘Quickly,’ said Oleander.

  I continued following her between houses at the base of some hills. Small tracks led to a drinking establishment, and people here were served meals at long tables. The men gazed at Oleander. They only glanced at me, at my pasty face, at my hollow eyes, but always back to Oleander. Firstly, I believed because she was so beautiful in fine embroidered silks and a stark contrast to the plainness of other women in the room. And secondly, because people – as it was everywhere – were suspicious of those who were different.

  Oleander ordered two bowls of soup and two glasses of wine from the counter. She paid handsomely and the barman counted his good measure before offering her a nod.

  We sat down in front of our bowls but neither of us touched them. I watched Oleander, her eyes cannily scanning the room and beyond. She was listening to the conversations in the room that no human could hear.

  ‘Marek,’ she whispered. ‘Go through the back door of the inn and wait for me there.’ I did so straight away, craving fresh air. For the first time I did not feel the need to question her motives. I leaned against the back wall and closed my eyes against the light from the setting sun.

  ‘Oy,’ said a lout gruffly, some years older than myself. He was standing only yards away and I followed his shifty look to find a younger ruffian on my other side.

  They closed in quickly, kicking me to the ground and groping in my pockets for change. They stank of ale and urine.

  When Oleander appeared they stopped, a thuggish smile passing between them as if they had found more riches.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’re with this,’ he said pointing at me, as I struggled to rise. I licked the blood from my split lip.

  Oleander tilted her head seductively.

  And here was the opportunity. I realised the instant that Oleander closed on the thief and clasped her hands around the back of his head, that she had heard their conversation to beat us and steal our money.

  ‘Oh, you are lovely,’ he said with all the charm of a feral cat. ‘Let’s see what else you have for me.’

  The watching boy was fixated as Oleander put her lips over the thief’s mouth and began to kiss him, passionately at first, and then her mouth moved swiftly to his neck. It was too late for resistance from the man; he was immobilised, his struggles were useless.

  The smile faded on the youth beside me as he shortly realised that something was wrong with his friend. The kiss was too powerful, her teeth deep within his pulsating vein.

  ‘Hold on,’ he said. ‘I think he wants to stop now.’

  Oleander lifted up her head and trickles of blood had formed at the side of her mouth. ‘It is too late for both of you,’ she said. ‘Marek, do as I do.’

  I grabbed the ruffian and placed my mouth near his neck as he aimed a punch to my stomach. This jolt of pain enraged me and I gripped him fiercely, my canine teeth piercing first, sinking deep beneath the flesh. I could hear his screams in my head and for a second I was maddened by this but as the noise subsided, I began to wander through his memories. Scrounging for food, lots of brothers and sisters, the death of his parents, work stirring wood tar, and drunken brawls. I convinced myself that I had saved his wretchedness yet I was bluffing, sucking harder to close the windows to this young man’s soul. I had seen enough. And then it was just that. Enough!

  Oleander inspected the lifeless husk at my feet with detachment.

  ‘You have done well, little brother, but next time you need to draw the life from their lips before they take their last breath. It is the only way to receive their souls and complete the process of immortality. You will need to feed as often as you can to build your strength. In time, the blood will not be enough. In time, it will be their souls you desire.’

  I had not fully taken in what she had said, still reflecting on what had just happened.

  ‘We must destroy the bodies,’ she said.

  We carried our kill deep into the forest and buried the remains.

  ‘See Marek, you have done this world a service. These men were vagabonds, roaming the countryside, stealing. They were worthless.’

  ‘They did not choose their lives. They had nothing.’ I defended them yet even as I said these words they were hollow. We had taken what choices they had away from them. I had committed an unthinkable crime.

  And yet with a warm sensation streaming through my veins, I felt so wonderful and alive. Never had the world looked brighter at night, never had the nightingales sounded sweeter. And I headed back to our home with new eyes, eager to find Zola, and especially eager to see Celeste at this evening’s gala.

  I was changed.

  Chapter 10

  Jean

  I lay on the cushioned chaise longue and surveyed the festivities. I might have looked a bit tired but I was more bored than anything else. So many people wanted to sit with me, talk to me, touch me, especially the girls in their low cut gowns and their bright cherry lips, their velvets and their sugary sickly compliments. They were all a bit dull. I sent them away with false politeness. I did not feel like fli
rting. Instead I inspected my reflection in the mirror across the hall. I was tall and irresistible, in milk-coloured tights and shiny pointed black leather boots. I could completely understand why everyone courted me. I was without a doubt the most handsome man in the room. Until, and this is hard for me to say, Marek entered. The freeloading swine!

  Marek had returned earlier from a hunt. I had watched him creep through the forest and enter Oleander’s library for quiet conversation. It was the fourth night in a row. He was nearly one of us but not quite. They all started off resistant, horrified, looking at themselves as abhorrent creatures. Then slowly they were seduced by the knowledge that they had become superior beings. It was but a small hurdle for most, and not like the drama and trauma that Marek put himself through.

  Marek sought out Celeste and I could see that Zola watched carefully. She had been moody these past few days. Zola had asked if she could accompany Marek on a hunt but was rejected. Oleander was punishing her for her sullenness and her outspoken concern for her brother. Oleander did not like it when others tried to take control, or form their own groups with the opportunity for conspiracy. She did not like the fact that Zola still considered Marek her own.

  Many of our circle, who had lived elsewhere throughout the land, had come loyally to our frequent gatherings, though these meetings were not as they were. Once upon a time, when Lewis was in control, it was purely a time to discuss problems, living arrangements, inductions of new recruits, and news from across the lands. Now these meetings were just an excuse to party frivolously into the night, to hire expensive human musicians who may or may not see out the night – our sorcery often used to dull their memories of the night as good musicians were difficult to come by – and share human blood in wine glasses served to us by obedient and completely dull humans. These humans were considered fortunate: granted the opportunity to serve us faithfully for the term of their natural lives. Many others who entered the castle, enticed by our lavish hospitality and decadence, would never see another sunrise; these particular humans were used for more pleasurable and satiable means.

  Lewis had silly rules such as limiting us to one kill every full moon, and considered that anything more was greedy. I always found his rules so tedious whilst Oleander was less strict with hers. She tended to turn a blind eye to many things. She adored me so, spoiling me with jewels and fine clothes.

  Our mistress had her own rules but it did not necessarily mean I had to follow them too. What she did not know would not trouble her. If she got wind of my taking a child’s soul for instance she might chastise me lightly but that was all. I simply smiled in wonderment, kissed her forehead, praised her for her fairness and counsel, and the penalty was painless. Lewis was different. When anyone took the life of a child he had them killed, or worse: banished. And, to be honest, a strigoi without a coven was unwise. Once banished it was hard to join other ones in distant lands for most covens will not assume someone else’s garbage once any word on your character is spread. Usually it was a pathetic end for those who were banished, forced into mountain and forest dwellings, eventually going mad with loneliness or exposing themselves to humans to be hunted and burnt as witches, as many of them, unlike me, were lacking in fortitude to start with.

  But my dears, belonging to a circle did not mean we were trapped. In particular we enjoyed more freedom there than most, as long as we reported to Oleander regularly. If we did not stray too far, we were free to spend the days how we pleased. No other coven had such an open door structure. Oleander relied on loyalty and it seemed she had it for the most part – well, her new generation of life-takers perhaps. And where else would you have received blood served to you on silver platters? All very delicious wouldn’t you say? But a tad too easy, which was why I found it boring.

  I grabbed a wine glass off a tray being carried by a young human. I could smell him. His blood was fresh. This wine was milked from hapless humans. Anyone who brought a human to the castle knew that it was to be shared amongst us. Stupid humans were too busy admiring the extravagance to notice the ravenous looks in the eyes of my strigoi brothers and sisters. The fluid was deep red and I swirled and sniffed it first to savour the flavour. It was wonderful. When I opened my eyes, the servant was gone. Too bad he was off limits.

  Yes, this life was decadent, but I yearned for new places, new girls, new adventures.

  Sometimes I left for days. It was during these times that I sought out children: the sweetest of souls. It was like drinking from fresh water springs, light and cool, so pure were their thoughts.

  And what did I think of my own circle? It was perhaps a good thing they could not read my mind; I was not prone to sing too many praises of anyone. Most were weak and unable to hold interesting conversation. Most did not have the real spirit to be a strigoi, just riding on the coat tails of the rest of us. Only Zola and Oleander were the strong ones.

  I put a berry pastry in my mouth. There was a small burst of taste but nothing that lingered. To explain what artfully decorated pasties are to a strigoi is probably best compared with what flowers mean to humans. They do not do an awful lot to satisfy a need but you still have to take one just because you can.

  Something shiny and bright caught my eye. It was the luscious Celestina who had bewitched me. Not since Oleander had anyone been so intriguing. Well, the new Celestina anyway. As she was before… let’s just say I preferred her as she was at that moment. She had asked us to call her by her new name and I knew something about Celestina that Oleander didn’t. She was bad to the core. I knew before she (Neve) was altered that she was insatiable when it came to danger, but she was old and ugly then and I wanted nothing to do with her.

  She met my gaze across the room and nodded. Later tonight we would meet in her room. But then came Marek with his pathetic puppy dog eyes and she danced with him.

  I could see it all as if I was looking down from the top of a tall tree. Zola wanted Marek who wanted Celeste who wanted me who wanted Oleander’s adulation and indulgence of my whims. I loved girls who threw themselves at me but I loved the ones more who played hard to get, like Oleander. And I can say that I had not just confined my encounters to witches. Human girls could be good company too but only after I had fed – the smell of their blood sent me crazy. That practice was another secret – for we were not to play with our food – along with the fact that I was born more bad than anyone.

  Lewis sought me out many years ago. He caught my scent on the breeze and tracked me down like the hunters that we are. I embraced the immortal fiend in me far easier than most, after which I went back to my father and killed him. He was a brute of a man who was ashamed to have such a fop as a son. Little did he know I was just ahead of my own time for it appeared my high fashion caught on everywhere, even in the East.

  After the pleasure of killing my father, I then proceeded to eat through every person who had mocked my unique ways. Eccentric, they said, slightly mad, even comments alluding to a very low moral fibre and intelligence. All those people who cast stones became my food. Such joyful reflection! I still take much delight in those memories.

  I inherited my house in the Kingdom of France, which I returned to occasionally. The strigoi never worked, of course, when we could take what we liked from humans. For human lives were there for our needs, as were all their worldly goods. Sneaking into wealthy merchant vaults was as easy as lacing up my boots. My house was where I was going soon for a change of scenery. Oleander was never happy when I took journeys to other lands, sometimes alone, sometimes not, and my leave was always too brief. Sometimes I had barely been away and she had called me urgently back to the castle, perhaps for a judgment of another strigoi or a decision on a new rule she had decided to announce to the coven. And I always dutifully came like her lap dog. Oleander, lovely, alluring, and mysterious, but sometimes a ball and chain.

  I did not begrudge that Lewis chose Oleander to run the coven before he left us. She was certainly a great leader. In the ten years with Lewis she took t
he trouble to learn more than anyone else. Mind you, she was the one who spent hours studying whilst most strigoi, like me, preferred to live the pampered life. And let’s face it. I was strong but not as strong as Oleander. I was at least her second in command.

  Then of course there came a problem. She had a brother who even I had been unaware of until shortly before he arrived. He was a threat; I suspected that his power might be greater. And this fact bothered me. Eventually, I might no longer be the favourite pampered pet of Oleander.

  I held a secret fantasy to eat Marek’s soul. He was so annoyingly good. He would not make a loyal strigoi. He thought he was so clever but I noticed things about him that others didn’t. Oleander was clever but sometimes she missed the tiny detail. She was too busy at her work to notice that he still had not taken a soul, so I would have to convince her that Marek might be better used elsewhere. For I knew something of Oleander. It was not blood that bonded her to her brother. It was her lust for power and she would destroy anything that stood in her way.

  I strode across the room and swept delectable Celestina out of Marek’s arms and into mine mid dance. She was pleased, loving all this new attention. She told me the previous night that she was in love with both of us, but that she would still do anything I wanted, even kill another of her own if it came to it, just to prove her love. Fickle I know, but that was hardly a flaw in my book.

  I had another fantasy and that was to take Celestina to France with me, so that we could hunt together. She was most certainly a player, and once away from Oleander’s eyes we could do what we liked. She was such a prize, though she was not really Celeste. Just as Zola was not really Zola.

  Zola

  Marek changed. He had become one of us and yet this did not make me happy. I had some regret now that I had brought Marek to Oleander. No-one had ever affected me this much before. He spent much time doting on Celestina. I hated calling her by that name. I now found myself questioning the motives of both Oleander and Jean.