What could I say of Jean? I could not admit to Marek that I found Jean interesting and amusing. It would sound so careless. I knew he had many indiscretions that even Oleander did not hear about. So I said nothing. Yes, to humans we are monsters, but I was pleased and not ashamed that I at least had been given a life that I would never have had without them both, and I made no apology for this.
‘Tell me, Zola. Who are you? For you are not as you appear.’
‘Perhaps, but first let me tell you something of our kind so you can understand me better. Originally, witches were the result of the coupling of humans and strigoi. This weaker race, which still carried the bloodline, was spurned by humans and living without the protection of a circle. Lewis tried to change that. He could see what was happening; they were outcasts, burned for their craft yet committing no real threat. He began rounding them up, travelling across countries. He initiated your mother into the fold. It is something of a mystery why she was not converted. Instead, he let her go. I too was one of those witches sought out by Lewis.
‘I had been working as a servant in a wealthy household. I was crippled, my legs bent and twisted. For my affliction I was whipped and beaten and ridiculed by others. I was considered an abomination. Abandoned by my parents at birth I was given over to this household to spend the rest of my life looking after their every need. When the ageing mother died, her daughter took over where she left off; a vicious young mistress who paid me nothing.
‘I knew there was something strange about me but I did not know it as a gift or where it came from. Sometimes I could hear things when others could not, and other times I could find things that humans couldn’t. Once, when my mistress lost her earring, I pictured it in a gap beneath the floorboards. I fished it out with a long stick and when I brought it to her she thought I had stolen it and had me beaten. Of course, it was not something one admitted to and if I had told her the truth I would be dead now.
‘Then one day Oleander called on me as she had called on others, tracking us down to join her coven. She was only a young girl, barely twelve. I believed her to be a beggar so I took her into the kitchen and fed her. She was in her firstborn form then and so much like you. She would call on me often, always knowing when the mistress was out. We became friends and soon she began to tell me about the castle that was her home and I realised this girl was special, and certainly no beggar.
‘She told me about myself, my craft, and encouraged me to move objects with my mind. I can say I did not do it well at first but it was the beginning of many teachings. One day she picked up a dead rose from the kitchen waste. She cupped the lifeless form in her hands and when she opened them the rose was in full bloom. It was more brilliant than before, with layers of red petals, and a heavenly bouquet that lingered for days. Oleander said she would teach me everything and one day I too would be perfect like the rose. The next day she came back with Lewis to take me away and I was made part of the circle.
‘Later, after Lewis had left us, she told me a secret. She said she could give me a new body to replace the one that had failed me. She asked me, if there was anyone I wanted to look like who would it be?
‘I was eventually cured of my frailties when becoming the new Zola, and for the first time, when I looked in the mirror, I no longer wanted to look away. It felt so good to have no pain in my legs and to run and ride horses.’
‘And what of the real Zola, the one whose body you stole? Was there no remorse at all?’
‘At first it bothered my conscience but those feelings have long passed, Marek. I wanted so much to live a normal life. Crippled and bound to an intolerant mistress. Is that what you would want for me? What choice did I have?’ Marek unfortunately would never understand why I had no regrets. Zola was who I chose to be. She was who I dreamed about for years.
‘And all those people at the nightly festivals, they are all strigoi? They all did the same?’
‘Yes, most of those were converted and given a new life by Oleander.’
‘You sound disappointed.’
‘There is something you need to know. Something that I personally am not proud of. Those others, the ‘grotesque ones’ in the basement, did not approve of Oleander’s body transferral instead of the one hundred year rest, nor her coven war prophesy, and nor her decadent festivals that replaced the serious gatherings. They particularly did not like Jean who Oleander declared as her second with nearly as much authority as herself. The grotesque ones are those who rejected her new leadership. They are being punished down there. They are never to be given a tomb for rest. Oleander says that anyone who disobeys is committing treachery and therefore she will not offer them protection. Without someone to watch over their graves they cannot rest for fear of being exposed. If Lewis could see what was happening to his circle… I do not think he’d approve.’
Marek shook his head. ‘And what happens to you? How do you know that Oleander won’t leave you down there waiting in darkness?’
It was something I had been considering myself lately now that I was somewhat out of favour. It weighed on me. Before Marek came there had been no fear. But there had been no reason to question Oleander either.
‘You are a demon spirit now, Zola.’
It was odd how any such talk from Marek stabbed at me as I had never considered myself evil. ‘Yes, it is said we are demons from hell and that perhaps our true form is what you see in the basement. But tell me, Marek – if I am such a demon, without conscience or soul, why do I care what happens to you?’
Even in the dark I saw Marek’s features soften. ‘What am I?’ Marek said with despair, running his hands through his hair.
‘Lewis once showed me a book that said we descend from angels; angels who chose to live on earth in human bodies. It said that when the angels realised their human bodies were ageing, they changed their minds and asked to be accepted back into heaven. They were refused. They then had to wander the earth forever, as punishment, living as creatures of the night to survive.’
‘It sounds like a good story,’ said Marek sceptically. ‘Zola, you can leave this too!’
‘Never again can we live as witches, not after we have taken human blood. If we do not continue to drink blood we eventually become grotesque and turn to bones picked apart by birds and wolves.’
‘Is a strigoi really immortal? Can they never die?’
‘A strigoi is capable of destroying another if they have superior strength, or they can forcibly separate a strigoi soul from its material form. Humans have captured many of us to burn on the pyre when we have been too weakened without blood to resist. The strigoi soul can die by fire, but kill and bury them any other way, leaving their body intact, they can recover. I am not sure about witches though. Some say they die like humans, and some have suggested that, like strigoi, a witch might rise again from the grave, if someone was to place a drop of blood on their remains. It was thought to be where the first body stealing came from. For those witches who had accidentally risen from their graves needed quickly to find a more palatable host as a disguise than their maggot-ridden form.
‘I have witnessed the death of another strigoi by Oleander’s hand. I watched him catch alight until there was nothing left of him but ash. Only a few of us have that amount of power. We can also feed on other strigoi but there is a code amongst us that this does not happen.
‘The bodies of the grotesque ones will eventually shut down and they will be nothing but bones to be disposed of. If they were buried in their whole perfect form in a stone coffin and watched over, it would be different. They could rest peacefully until their awakening.
‘It will be years of torment and hunger for those in the dungeon and if they still won’t conform then their bones will be buried in different graves across the land. Scattering their remains is the cruellest fate of all; their souls will never truly be dead whilst they cling on to what remains of their bodies, waiting desperately for replenishment and living in darkness in a non-physical world.’
/> ‘That sounds worse than hell.’
‘You did not take a human soul, Marek. I do not know what will happen to you if you do not continue to drink.’ I did not know if his ending might be worse.
‘I will take my chances away from here.’
I felt cold air at the base of my neck. Oleander was looking for me. She was calling me back.
‘Have courage, Marek. You are stronger than you think. Believe in the power of your mind for it will still be there when your body has failed. It might help me to find you again one day. Oleander says that you are free; though, I suspect now, her loyalties lie once again solely with Jean, and he despises you. I feel that you must leave here as fast as you can.’
‘Zola. I do not believe you are like the others. I find it impossible to hate you yet I should.’
‘There is one more thing I should tell you. Oleander did really care about you once. I believe originally it was sisterly love more than anything as the reason to summon you. Even the strigoi want love. Unfortunately, power can change a person and not always for the better.’
I touched his face and kissed his cheek. There was something more he wanted to say but it was time to go before he tested my conscience any further.
‘Take care of Zeke.’
Zeke. Yes I would look after Zeke. I cannot lie and say that there weren’t moments when I thought that he would one day be useful as a transfer. But it was fleeting and I had grown attached to him, especially knowing I would never be able to bear children of my own. Until I had encountered Zeke I’d had no desire to take care of another human. Zeke had softened half my heart. Marek, the other half.
His words stayed with me as I returned to the castle. I was sure I would be in trouble with Oleander for following Marek and talking to him without her permission. I knocked on the library door but Oleander did not call to me. Lately I had been ostracised for my support of Marek. It had been days since I was included in their private discussions. Celestina was now in their private fold.
Chapter 12
Marek
I ran till I was out of breath. My body was weak. The newly converted required blood regularly but I was resolute that all that was behind me. All I could think of was seeing my father again.
There were signs that winter was leaving early. Much of the ice was turning to slush. Trees began to quiver, patiently anticipating new leaves.
I travelled through streams. I cooked hare but ate the dried out meat only, burning every trace of blood, yet I was hungry all the time. I ate more but it did not satisfy the burning feeling in my stomach and the thumping in my head.
It was early afternoon and over a day gone when I saw another of my kind. My sickness had so dulled my sensibility that I did not sense her before she appeared. She stood among a group of trees watching me without expression.
‘What do you want?’
She said nothing and wore a thin sheath of clothing, her eyes sunken and her skin ashen. It was at that point it struck me that many of the strigoi weren’t beautiful at all without their faces painted and fine clothing. And probably this fact was clearer to me now that I knew what was on the inside.
‘Go away,’ I shouted.
As I spoke I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. Another stood there. He too said nothing but his chin was close to his chest as if he might charge at any moment.
I was in danger. Several more stepped out from behind trees, surrounding me. Then they laughed one by one, the hysteria catching on like a disease. The noise escalating to such a high level that it pierced my ears and threatened to burst apart my hearing.
Then the laughter stopped and they rushed at me, one by one. I tried to push them away but I was weak and soon they covered me like ants, biting and tearing at my clothes. Perhaps this was for the best. I was an aberration. If I returned to my island I might endanger my father and others. It was fitting that I die the death I gave to others.
The biting continued. I could feel the blood rising up to meet their noisy sucking at my arms and neck. I lost count of how many covered me. And then I was thinking of my father and how much I desperately wanted to see him, if for nothing else, to say goodbye, to feel his strong arms encircle me once more.
You are stronger than you think ... I did not want to die like this. I did not want to die at the hands and teeth of something I despised. Something rose in my throat. It was the first stages of anger and my own blood started to boil.
The creatures noticed the resistance and bit deeper, drawing harder. But the blood pulsated at my temples and there was a storm in my head: a build-up of energy that burst into fragments of light. Several of the creatures were forced back, falling on the forest floor. They scrambled to return, crawling towards me on all fours like wild dogs.
My mind raced. My thoughts were wild and uncontrollable. I rose so that I was suspended inches from the ground. With my mind I concentrated on those still hanging on to me like maggots. Again, there was carnage in my head and more fell away. Most were frenzied and rushed at me again. Several disappeared back into the forest.
The power in my head was unstoppable, colours and shapes jumbled. I was a wild beast shrieking so loud that the winter birds scattered from their nests.
Then I focussed on those creatures surrounding me and with the final violent outburst in my head, many of them started to scream, fissures in their skin forming, like cracks in ice, their skin breaking apart. Tongues of fire flicked from between the cracks, and one by one they burst into flames. I turned to the ones who had tried to escape and they merged into fireballs, screaming at the air around them in an attempt to cease the infernos, the fire so powerful that their bodies crumbled into ash.
I surveyed the destruction, my mind still racing, the colours still vivid, and slowly I felt the blood inside me cooling. And I was Marek once more, calm and in control. I walked with nothing, the clothes torn and hanging from my body.
And then, just on the outskirts of a village the pain gripped me hard. I doubled over for my stomach felt cut to pieces, as if I had swallowed sharp knives. I lay there afraid to move; every time I did, my body shook with spasms and the knives twisted further. Soon the dizziness turned to blackness.
*
I woke to voices and a shred of sunlight on my face.
‘Look Mama!’ said a child. ‘A dead man.’
‘Hush, child. Do not go too close. He could have the fevers that took your poor father.’
I saw two small children hovering near me, curiosity across their small round faces, stretching wide their eyes. Their mother stepped forward beside them protectively.
‘Sir,’ she said. ‘What has befallen you?’
‘I must have been unconscious.’ My throat was dry and lips cracked. I was thirsty but it was not for water.
‘I am journeying home…Now hungry and tired.’ I tried to stand but staggered near to toppling over.
‘It looks like something worse. You lying out here in the chills and your brow sweating so. There are scratches all over you. Have you been attacked?’
‘Yes. I was mugged by a gang of thieves, and now I have caught an illness.’
She was worried about the sickness but she did not want to leave me.
‘If you can walk a short way, I will give you a drink and a meal at my house.’
I hobbled behind her some yards, my vision blurred. The children looked back to me from time to time. The bright blue pinafore was too long for the little girl and she tripped on her skirts. I wanted to leave for fear of what I was but the kindness of this lady overwhelmed me, along with the need for the company of humans to make me feel as I once was.
The woman’s house was small and sparsely furnished. It was far from other small farms. There was a pen with pigs, chickens and a goat.
She pointed in the direction of a cot near the fireplace. I lay down, grateful for its duck feather softness. The children whispered in the corner but it was loud in my ears. They were discussing where I was from. The boy said that
I was as pale as fresh snowdrops. The girl looked at me constantly as if I was a strange new being.
The mother hushed them and scolded for not leaving their wet boots at the front door. I realised I was still wearing mine where I lay. I hugged my arms for the cold had seeped into my bones as it had never done before, my teeth chattering.
The woman bent to feel my forehead. Her hands were warm and she smelled like milk and oatmeal. Her head was swimming with memories of sickness. She was torn as to whether she had done the right thing letting a stranger into her home.
I touched her arm as she turned to go away. ‘This is no infection and I promise… you will come to no harm. I appreciate your kindness.’
The effort of speaking was exhausting.
Whether it was the touch of my hand that had assured her, or my words I could sense her relax slightly. For this sickness was something that may not be cured, and if at any time I felt myself waver into the strigoi ways I would wander back out in the wilderness where I would bury myself in the snow.
The woman directed the boy to bring me water. I gulped it greedily but it burned as it slid down my throat. She stirred up the fire, placing another log, then ladled some watery soup into a bowl.
She spooned the hot liquid into my mouth. I did not have the heart to tell her that this would not help, that this would not satisfy my craving. I was aware she had endured much hardship in her short years and wore the strain in her face. Her hands were wrinkled and her brow was furrowed. The clean, earnest faces of her children suggested this was a woman of substance.
I knew my strigoi body was dying and possibly taking my soul to a limbo world. I did not believe I would get better. Stopping the conversion was something I knew nothing about but this pain would be worth it if I never again killed. I would honour my mother a different way to Oleander, and not give into evil. As I believed my mother did many years ago, I had walked away from immortality at the expense of my own life.
Marek (Buried Lore Book 1) Page 21