called
‘Why should I when I am not one.’ I replied
from the shadows and the group stood frozen to the rotting floorboards.
I descended the stairs from the top landing,
accentuating every creak in the boards. As I got to the bottom – my face
emerging from darkness like a shining light itself – I could sense relief
and for one moment a thought passed through their heads that they might have
the wrong house. In appearance, I was not a young man you see. Tall and
daunting maybe, but thin with hair streaked with grey and fingers crooked.
‘You have come to the house of the strigoi.
What is it that you want?’
‘Your head on a stick,’ sneered the leader, a
stocky, rugged man who had experienced many a fight.
‘How barbaric,’ I said toying with them. ‘Have
you not been taught any manners at all?’
They did not like the mockery and began to
descend on me. The leader raised his pick but I reached to grab it with such
strength, his eyes widened in shock.
With one twist I broke his arm and he screamed.
Others came forward to help but stopping suddenly, aware of a low rumbling in
the air like the beginnings of an avalanche. Turning to face their adversaries,
they did not have time to cross themselves. The other strigoi were upon them.
Several had already begun feeding: a quick bite to the neck
to stun them before a slow sucking sound drawn from a thick vein of
blood. There was an eerie stillness as I watched my family take their feed as
if it was their last. Their eyes were closed in rapture for there was nothing
like the taste of blood after many nights of abstinence. Bodies would be
strengthened, their minds energised.
Several days without blood made a reborn strigoi weak and irrational. But for the elders of
our kind, the impulses and cravings lessened over centuries. I did not choose a
mark even though it had been weeks since I had fed. My body still had not
reached the need.
There were twelve of us and
eleven men . One strigoi offered me a wrist of one of the men still
conscious enough to show terror in his wrinkled brown eyes, but I shook my
head.
‘Are they Brodnici?’ I asked Pietro, one of the
elders.
‘They don’t fight like them. They are too
stupid and barbarous and I saw nothing from their past to suggest it; though in
his memories I did see this one receiving a bag of silver from a gentleman.’ He
turned the now shrunken and almost unrecognisable face of the leader towards
me.
‘Did you know the person you saw?’
‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘He wore a hood. I could
not see the face.’
These villagers may have been opportunists with
newfound knowledge of our existence; fuelled by beer and gypsy legend, and
tales of coffers filled with gold. But there was something not quite right
about this and I would need to be more mindful of strangers among us.
I was done here and left knowing my coven would
clean up after themselves, burning the husks of the men to ashes and scattering
them to the winds.
We left no trace of our presence, of any
bloodbath as humans might refer to it. We had to remain unfathomable – a
story to pass on as legend. If the truth of us was exposed, fear would drive humans to hide or fight. We could not afford such
behaviour.
Although we were superior to all other living
creatures, we did not abuse the privilege. For the continuation of life,
moderation was expected and avarice not tolerated. Our kind had to coexist by
staying out of sight, undetected and choosing to remove only those humans who
provided little value to the world. Humans have been important to our longevity
for many reasons, not just for feeding. When our numbers were low, we bred with
these beings to create our lesser cousins: witches. Witches since, have made the
change to strigoi and thus ensuring the multiplication of our line.
It has taken the blood of humans to continue
the line of witches, and the blood of witches to grow our strigoi covens. For
that, I am grateful to humans, but I do not
‘Why should I when I am not one.’ I replied
from the shadows and the group stood frozen to the rotting floorboards.
I descended the stairs from the top landing,
accentuating every creak in the boards. As I got to the bottom – my face
emerging from darkness like a shining light itself – I could sense relief
and for one moment a thought passed through their heads that they might have
the wrong house. In appearance, I was not a young man you see. Tall and
daunting maybe, but thin with hair streaked with grey and fingers crooked.
‘You have come to the house of the strigoi.
What is it that you want?’
‘Your head on a stick,’ sneered the leader, a
stocky, rugged man who had experienced many a fight.
‘How barbaric,’ I said toying with them. ‘Have
you not been taught any manners at all?’
They did not like the mockery and began to
descend on me. The leader raised his pick but I reached to grab it with such
strength, his eyes widened in shock.
With one twist I broke his arm and he screamed.
Others came forward to help but stopping suddenly, aware of a low rumbling in
the air like the beginnings of an avalanche. Turning to face their adversaries,
they did not have time to cross themselves. The other strigoi were upon them.
Several had already begun feeding: a quick bite to the neck
to stun them before a slow sucking sound drawn from a thick vein of
blood. There was an eerie stillness as I watched my family take their feed as
if it was their last. Their eyes were closed in rapture for there was nothing
like the taste of blood after many nights of abstinence. Bodies would be
strengthened, their minds energised.
Several days without blood made a reborn strigoi weak and irrational. But for the elders of
our kind, the impulses and cravings lessened over centuries. I did not choose a
mark even though it had been weeks since I had fed. My body still had not
reached the need.
There were twelve of us and
eleven men . One strigoi offered me a wrist of one of the men still
conscious enough to show terror in his wrinkled brown eyes, but I shook my
head.
‘Are they Brodnici?’ I asked Pietro, one of the
elders.
‘They don’t fight like them. They are too
stupid and barbarous and I saw nothing from their past to suggest it; though in
his memories I did see this one receiving a bag of silver from a gentleman.’ He
turned the now shrunken and almost unrecognisable face of the leader towards
me.
‘Did you know the person you saw?’
‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘He wore a hood. I could
not see the face.’
These villagers may have been opportunists with
newfound knowledge of our existence; fuelled by beer and gypsy legend, and
tales of coffers filled with gold. But there was something not quite right
about this and I would need to be more mindful of strangers among us.
I was done here and left knowing my coven would
clean up after themselves, burning the husks of the men to ashes and scattering
them to the winds.
We left no trace of our presence, of any
bloodbath as humans might refer to it. We had to remain unfathomable – a
story to pass on as legend. If the truth of us was exposed, fear would drive humans to hide or fight. We could not afford such
behaviour.
Although we were superior to all other living
creatures, we did not abuse the privilege. For the continuation of life,
moderation was expected and avarice not tolerated. Our kind had to coexist by
staying out of sight, undetected and choosing to remove only those humans who
provided little value to the world. Humans have been important to our longevity
for many reasons, not just for feeding. When our numbers were low, we bred with
these beings to create our lesser cousins: witches. Witches since, have made the
change to strigoi and thus ensuring the multiplication of our line.
It has taken the blood of humans to continue
the line of witches, and the blood of witches to grow our strigoi covens. For
that, I am grateful to humans, but I do not
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