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curse of my skill.
    I had just turned fifteen and I was no closer
to knowing who or what I was.
    Chapter 4

 
    Gabriel

 
    The moon loomed large and bright,
hanging low above the trees and perfect for hunting. The forests at night were
exhilarating and I ran, bounding through new pathways, brushing past low branches;
feeling the rush of fallen leaves churn from the ground and sail behind me. The
intensity of wild rosemary made me light-headed, and midnight felt like a fine
silk sheet around me.
    Sometimes I would stop to scratch messages in
the bark for my strigoi friends: Giorgio, Nokëg and others. We were all clever
at this childish game of hide and find, though none as good as I. The elders
were the best having spent many years at such frivolous pastimes; several of whom looked younger than me, so long had they slept to
rejuvenate. I was just a few years past two hundred; my own youthful appearance
restored from many years buried beneath the earth.
    During our hiding games, I would carve
patterns, maps and letters into the bark – ancient messages read only by
our kind in witch speak – and these were left to help the others
locate me. Our senses would be drawn to the fragrance of freshly etched wood.
    Often our games took us across borders and
sometimes we lost a few participants along the way – those not specially
gifted, or inexperienced reborn distracted by the smell of prey – but
always there was a winner and most often it was me. Sometimes such merriment
went for days and the object was to catch me before I returned to our castle.
    But that night, there were no games. It was
time to feed.
    The lights of a small town glimmered ahead. I
travelled far for hunting. It seemed less civilised to hunt close to home; to
deplete supplies from one area. I was trained from elders who knew best about endurance
and had always been discreet. I often carried with me a heavy purse and silver
cane, and my finely woven shirt and leather trousers had been tailored by the
best enabling me to comfortably consort in fashionable towns. It was easy to
lure those human predators with an eye for someone else’s coin.
    I did not always reveal the destinations where
I travelled well beyond the listening skills of my master, Lewis. It was just
one of our many disagreements, since I felt that we were entitled to some liberties.
Lewis was too rigid with rules; though as coven master, it was his right to
make or change them. A stoic leader, nonetheless, but one I regarded out of
duty sometimes more than respect.
    It had been a month since my last hunting and
nearing the town I could smell that familiar distasteful reek of human waste
and fear. Although I was fond of some humans, I admit that many were quite
disgusting in their behaviour, and if not for my appetite for blood I would
avoid those sections where debauchery was the main source of entertainment;
where they drank, pissed on themselves, and abused the weaker of their kind.
    Once at the town I stood outside a small,
well-built house. A celebration of some kind was taking place within. A young
boy and girl danced to the sounds of a lute while adults clapped them on. I
took a moment to sit and listen, enjoying the sound of their feet tapping on
the floor. There was more applause at the end and cakes on
silver trays were offered by servants wearing aprons edged with lace .
    These honest people would not do ; of course. My prize was elsewhere. At the other end of the
town, where it was darker, where the river smelled of rotted meat, was the
place where I would find what I was seeking.
    I lurked near the door of a csarda where
the air was fetid with the smell of beer spilling out into the streets. The
establishment was full of harlots and men who boasted of very little and spread
rumours about nothing, while a few weary travellers kept a safe distance in
their corner booths away from the revelry. The rowdy group drowned out the
pleasant sound of nightingales.
    It was not uncommon to