Marek (Buried Lore Book 1) Read Online Free PDF

and still covered in a fine
layer of dust. He had a good hand for such work. I looked across the deep
water. There was a strong wind during the night that had rattled the windows.
The same wind would have carried Marek to the
mainland without any effort. I smoothed the note scrunched in my hand.
    Father, you have been there for me
but I must find out the truth. Please do not be angry that I have made this
choice alone. Please trust me and do not try to follow. Your
loving son, Marek .
    His
mother had cruelly been taken from him and I had seen the pain in his young
boy’s eyes of never knowing her, never feeling her warm breath on his cheek,
and her long arms around his body on cold nights. His quest to find his sister
would hopefully free him of the emptiness he had felt these past years. I never
saw Oleander’s body and had also wondered about the truth of it over the years.
    With
my cupped hands, I scooped up some seawater, for at that moment it was
something we shared. I said a silent prayer for Marek’s safe return and watched the water trickle through my fingers. The hollowed
palms of my hands reflected the void I would feel without him and tears flowed
in rivers to my chin. ‘Come back,’ I whispered, hoping the same breeze would
carry these words to my son.

Chapter 2

 
    Zola

 
    It
was only an hour before sunrise and the air was still. Winter was coming.
    I
followed Jean, his cloak floating like bat wings behind him as we ran through
thick forest untravelled by humans. Jean knew a place
he thought would be amusing. His idea of amusement usually accompanied danger.
But I didn’t complain. He made every journey exciting.
    We
reached a house – a wealthy man’s house at the end of a busy street. Jean
liked to be daring and often hunted in populated towns just for the thrill of
being seen or chased, even though this action was breaking code. Jean had been
watching over our unsuspecting victims, and I was told the man beat his workers
with iron bars and sometimes didn’t pay them at all. His wife was also vicious
and cruel to her maids. They offered no charity to the poor.
    I
nodded my consent. Jean gave me a mischievous grin and a kiss on the cheek,
leaving behind his floral scent. He casually swept one hand through his hair,
which fanned around his shoulders in waves, fully aware of his appeal. Once
upon a time I could not wait for his attentions in the days of my infatuation.
I was not his true love as he once professed – I saw many other girls
come and go. Though I still felt love towards Jean, I had learnt to mask my
heart with feelings of friendship where I could.
    We
glided over the stairs leading up to the porch and stood facing tall windows.
Jean rolled his eyes back into his head as the window latches snapped open
without hands, and the glass panels flung outwards. We followed patterned rugs
up another set of stairs and to a doorway at the end of the hall. With our
combined forces this time, the double doors flew open themselves and we stepped
into the bedroom.
    The
woman sat up on the bed and drew a lace coverlet to her modestly. The man was
slower to wake and felt on the bedside table blindly for his eyeglasses. The
woman was about to scream when I moved fast to cover her mouth with my hand.
Her attempts to wriggle free from my arms were useless.
    The
man was much older than his wife, and had the look of a mole with tufts of
white hair protruding from his face and ears. Jean stood in front of him, hands
on hips, balancing daintily on his toes, his plump ruby lips stretched wide,
grinning like a lunatic. In the dimness of the room the man fumbled several
attempts to successfully light a candle, in order to examine the peculiar
creature poised unlawfully by his bedside. Those moments of waiting were long
enough to complete our task but not Jean’s style. The kill itself was nothing
without the melodrama.
    Once
focused, the man paused – befuddled perhaps by Jean’s apparent playful demeanour –