Remembered

  Remembered

  Rebecca Finner

  Caroline Hanson

  Host of the Hills

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Prologue

  The original inhabitants of our land called it Walawaiiam and spoke of cousin islands that were so far away that anyone who tried to reach them would die in the crossing. Now I know those islands are the Hawaiian islands or the Cook Islands depending upon who you talk to…and what century they and their map were created in.

  The distance hasn’t stopped people from trying to leave our island paradise. Home made rafts will always launch in the dead of night, hoping to make it to the New World.

  They always fail.

  And when the bodies come back (which they usually do because of some trick of the currents surrounding the island) they wash up on shore bloated, nibbled on by fish or worse, large pieces missing because of sharks and other creatures from the deep, the Infinite make sure to display them in Blood Square as a deterrent.

  Then the Council come out and lecture us about our duties, reminding us of our place as servants and food. After these lectures the humans would quietly go back home where one could grumble in private and raise a glass to the brave people who at least tried to escape.

  On Sundays after church (led by the Infinite, of course) I often found myself sitting on the beach, looking out at the ocean, amazed at the length and breadth of it. An endless expanse of water that would go on and on until it disappeared at the edge of the horizon, absorbed by blue and white sky, and I would wonder if that was what it really meant to be Infinite. Not a being that couldn’t die and survived by drinking our blood, but vastness that reached out to forever. Was the ocean more Infinite than our Lords and Ladies?

  Sometimes it seemed that if I looked hard enough, if I squinted just right, that maybe I could see those cousin islands of ours in the distance. Just a hint, a slight bump in the unending, undulating expanse of blue.

  But we can’t see the Islands, of course. And I’d have been flogged if the wrong person heard that I was even interested in what was on the other side of the ocean. We are not supposed to wonder or be curious.

  But I was.

  I liked to imagine and pretend, trying to piece the world together. Let me tell you what very little I knew of the world, what was approved by the Council of the Infinite and their church, as it will give an indication of what a stupid girl I was. After all, I didn’t question this version of history until I went to the mainland and learned the truth:

  The original inhabitants of our island welcomed the European explorers who came to their island. Lord Marchant and Lord Dalmaine, his best friend, were on this voyage and that was at least some of the fascination for me. It was 1701 and I can well imagine how awe-inspiring they must have been since the Infinite never change.

  In my mind’s eye I can see the pair of them, one dark and one blonde, striding out of the waves in their breeches and linen shirts, their boots soaked. They would have come with no weapons, their hands open in peace, a smile of greeting on their full mouths. Their beauty, perfection and grace its own weapon.

  And they are deadly.

  Almost instantly the natives began to fall sick and die. For the people who visited were not just men but better than men. More separate than the natives could have known. Bodies drained of blood piled up high, giant funeral pyres were erected to dispose of the corpses.

  I imagine the giant clouds of black smoke, the sound of flesh popping, and the charred smell as those marked people would have watched the souls of their loved ones rise into the sky. I’ve seen it. The Infinite still cause destruction and death, just as they did then.

  And then they left, those dark gods that brought with them disease and consumed life. There must have been rejoicing. Tears of joy as what was left of the local population started to rebuild.

  And then they came back. Lord Marchant and Lord Dalmaine returned two years later with ships full of people. Lords and ladies in expensive clothing arrived first. And then servants and slaves who were well fed and hardier than the weak locals who quickly died out, leaving the island to the Infinite and the people they brought with them.

  The Infinite, our Lords and Ladies, are not strictly human. They are not terribly kind. But this is all we know—the glory of them, the frailty of us and the harsh demands that are meted out upon us and which we are to take as blessings. On the mainland the Infinite are called vampires and are thought to be myth. We know differently.

  Most of us try to endure. But some people do try to leave, dying in the attempt. And really, what does that get anyone? Dying by drowning and then being eaten by fish seems worse than living here and dying at the hands of the Infinite if you ask me. In my opinion, it’s far better to make the best of it, to live one’s life and try to be happy. After all, no one’s getting out of life alive anyway.

  Well, except the Infinite.

  And then there are some of us…young, stupid, naïve girls and boys who’ve not just accepted our place in life but even worse have decided to embrace it. I think we’re wired that way. Born to crave them or something unexplainable like that. Like maybe all those generations of people who’ve been born here have their genes a little different, maybe the fear has been bred out of us.

  When I heard about the Lords coming to the island I didn’t think too much about the dying natives or the sicknesses that killed them all. I didn’t think about how sad it was that an entire race of people were annihilated to make room for parasitic monsters.

  Me, I’d sit on the beach, feel the sun kiss my face, the wind ruffle my hair and I could almost see him coming out of the water, out of the waves, hands open, a smile on his lips and it would be me he was coming for. That was where I stopped, what I thought of. How beautiful he was. How powerful and deadly….

  And yet he’d want me. It’s embarrassing. Pathetic even. I feel stupid just writing it down.

  But it shows, you see, that I never had a chance, that I, from the very beginning was obsessed with Lord Marchant. I saw him as perfection, as better and covetable. I think, it’s fair to say, that I’ve spent most of my life in love with Leander Marchant, Lord of House Marchant and the most powerful vampire on the island. It shames me now that all I wanted was to die in his arms, his mouth on my neck, his teeth in my flesh and my very blood keeping him alive.

  You might wonder if that’s normal, if all the girls and boys on the island buy into this brainwashing.

  They don’t.

  1

  The memories of my life before Lord Marchant raised me out of the gutter are hazy. They’re like flashes on a TV screen or figments of dreams rather than reality. Is it sad that I think my life, my real life, started with him?

  Before Leander, one of my memories is seeing my mother’s hand, work worn, calloused and blistered, her nails torn down to the quick. She’s gripping a thin blanket tightly, her body weak from coughing blood. And then her hand relaxes….let’s go of life and I hear her sigh in peace. Sometimes I wonder if that’s a real memory or something my brain made up and clung to. Is it too pat, too perfect to be real?

  There are a few other things I remember, like watching the girls chosen to belong to the Infinite parade through the square looking both beautiful and pale with terror at what was to become of them. I remember telling my mother that I wanted to be like them when I grew up and she slapped me across t
he face.

  She wasn’t a violent woman (not that I remember anyway) and I think almost anyone would agree that a quick slap to the face of a five year old was appropriate in that situation. For those girls that drifted by, carried on litters like royalty, were going off to become blood whores, and most of them would probably be dead by the time my own opportunity to be chosen came along. What mother wouldn’t be terrified if her daughter said she wanted to be ruined and dead by 20?

  I hope that when I said I wanted to be one of them that I didn’t know how often it was that they died. I was only five. I probably didn’t know. Right?

  And then there is my first memory of him. Leander Marchant.

  My father was dead by that time. He had been a guard for House Capor and had been killed when Bethany, the Lady of House Travail had gone to the Capor estate for tea and went a little mad. She slaughtered most of House Capor’s servants, including my father. House Capor and House Bethany have been at odds ever since. Not that that is in any way unusual as all the Infinite houses argue with each other, having grievances that go back centuries.

  He’d been long dead by the time the plague that killed my mother and sister swept through town. The guards came into our house and hauled everybody out, me, my dead mother and sister, piling us on to a cart for burning. It smelled horrible. And I was so sick, so thirsty and near death that it gives some indication of just how bad it smelled that I noticed it at all.

  The cart ride to the pyres is very bumpy and it takes about half an hour to get there from town. Our island is young enough that part of it is still volcanic rock, black and pockmarked like the moon, all jagged edges and shine. The dead are burned, the bones stay where they are and periodically the volcano will give a rumble, the ground will crack open as a stream of lava pours out and whatever is left gets swallowed up and abolished by the earth.

  I must have been pretty near the top of the pile or else Lord Marchant wouldn’t have noticed me at all. The cart of dead bodies rocked to a halt and the horses whinnied unhappily.

  Horses don’t like the dead.

  “Something has to change. Two hundred dead and the pestilence is still burning through the quarter,” I heard a man say but I couldn’t open my eyes to see who it was. He sounded angry, cultured, and his accent, the frosty crispness of it told me was a Lord.

  “Oh, it’s absolutely horrendous,” his companion agreed, a little chuckle at the end of the statement. “All the more reason to not look at it. It’s positively morbid bringing us down here.” There was a moment of silence.

  The first Lord, the angry one said, “This arrangement doesn’t work anymore. The world has come too far. It would be so easy to prevent this from happening again.”

  “I knew it! Didn’t I say March wanted us down here to talk about his needles and potions? Again.” I struggled to open my eyes, curious. The sun was so bright it sent a stab of pain through my right temple and I whimpered. There were five Lords on horses, dressed in clean, bright colors, a striking contrast to death and black rock.

  I retched, my stomach dry but still trying to expel the illness inside of me. I moaned and I’m sure I cried, even though my body didn’t have enough water in it to make tears. A smoky breeze washed over me and I shivered. “Well, that’s a bit eager. Still alive, she is. Oh no, March! You’re not going to touch it, are you?”

  There was a small sound, a masculine exhale, as I was suddenly picked up, held against a chest that was warm and smelled like beauty, sun and power. “She’s a child,” the Lord who held me said, my body pressed to his chest, his voice a rumble through my skull. “Tell me your humanity is not so removed that the sight of this is acceptable to you. We do not burn our people alive.”

  “March, my good fellow,” someone else said, “If you like that waistcoat I would highly recommend you put the dead girl down and get quickly to your valet. I don’t know what is leaking out of her or where it’s coming from, but—“

  “She’s not dead,” he said, quiet, his midnight voice surrounding me, soothing. A perfect voice to die to.

  “Semantics,” someone said, as if they were talking about something inconsequential like the color of a button rather than my life.

  The Lord holding me, Lord Leander Marchant, said, “You owe me, you useless ass. If you want more wine, more cigarettes and cigars, more of anything then you will get the damned Collectors to check them first. If they’re not dead they don’t belong here. Are we clear?”

  A nervous laugh. “Well, alright. I didn’t mean any harm, of course, but… well, is she dead now? Because she’s clearly not got longer than a moment or two and really, it’s a fantastic waistcoat. Cassandra always has a fabulous eye for fabric. Italian made, is it?”

  A moment of deadly silence. A horse shifted, one of the lords cleared their throat. A nervous laugh. “But I’ll go and do this for you, March. Don’t let it be said that the Hapins don’t jump to do House Marchant’s bidding.” House Hapin. People didn’t say good things about Lord Hapin or his family. His humans died rather frequently.

  People took note of such things. Everyone gossiped about the Lords and Ladies, the church leaders and who was currently in favor and out of favor with who.

  Lord Marchant was the only lord that the people liked. ‘Liked’ being a relative term. There was always danger in working for a Lord. And while Lord Marchant didn’t kill his servants, his sister made up for it.

  Lord Marchant was rarely on the island which meant that his servants effectively belonged to his sister, Lady Cassandra. And she was a murderous bitch. It was well known that she was insane. And she killed people out of boredom.

  Since the Lords and Ladies were always bored this was a rather large problem.

  Lord Marchant wasn’t happy about his sister’s behavior but he was never here to stop it. Fat lot of good it did to have him be annoyed at the way she treated their people when he didn’t control her. After all, it’s not like you can take back a disembowelment. Or a defenestration.

  That’s throwing someone out of the window by the way. I remember, very clearly, that by the age of ten, I knew what that fancy word meant. I’d had the misfortune to see it happen a few times. Not the actual fall but the after affects. When the body was smashed and had to be hauled away.

  Sometimes I even dreamed about it, Lord Marchant’s sister throwing me out the window. And when I was older, just before everything happened and I left the island, I would dream about being defenestrated. But instead of it being Lady Cassandra who threw me out the window, it would be Lord Marchant. He’d drain me dry, press his blood-stained lips against my own and with that perfect smile on his handsome face, he’d throw me out the window. Which in a way is rather ironic considering how it all fell out (No pun intended, I assure you).

  But I digress.

  So there I was, a child, almost dead and Lord Marchant held me in his strong arms, keeping me warm, pretending to care. I wanted to open my eyes again to see what he looked like up close but I was too weak.

  He mounted his horse and I squeaked as I was momentarily squished hard against him. With a click of his tongue we were moving. I was almost unconscious when he said, “You’ll need to prove him wrong, girl. Die and I’ll be very annoyed.” There was pressure on my shoulder where he held me, as though he were prodding me for an answer. Or to stay alive.

  When next I awoke I heard a woman talking. This time I could open my eyes and while I still felt weak, I was better. Hetty, the healer, was leaning over me. Even then she seemed old, her skin wrinkled up like a raisin, her eyes sharp with knowledge, almost beady and her hair a frizz around her head that patients joked was like a halo. Hetty the angel, people said. She gave me a friendly smile. My arm stung where she touched. “Did the needle wake you, poor lamb?”

  I stared at my surroundings in confusion. There was a bag filled with clear fluid hanging to the right of me, a tube going from it to my arm. It was somehow connected to me and I could feel how cold the liquid was as it slithered insi
de me. “What is that?” I asked, throat raw from dehydration and disuse.

  “Don’t ask questions. Pretend you don’t see anything. You’re not supposed to see any of this and if anyone finds out about the medicine you’re getting here, it won’t go well for anybody.” Her kind brown eyes were firm, her lips squished together as if she were showing me how to keep a secret.

  “Okay,” I said, and she nodded, relieved. “Good girl. What’s your name, then?”

  “Rebecca.”

  “And your family?” she asked.

  I didn’t know what to say and she went blurry as tears filled my eyes.

  “All dead I take it?” she asked, with impersonal sympathy. “Well, then. Get some rest and I’ll be back.”

  “Am I going to die?”

  The healer paused, came back to me and squeezed my hand. “The only thing that would kill you now is grief, child. And it’s pretty difficult to die from grief. Especially for one as little as you. You’ll be alright. Now, go back to sleep.”

  When next I awoke the tube in my arm was gone. I’d been washed and I was wearing a light blue shift, my hands placed one over the other on my stomach. Arranged. I heard clinking and turned to see Hetty in the corner of the room, standing over a little metal cart. On the opposite wall leaned a Lord. And not just any lord but Lord Marchant, my savior.

  His hair was dark brown, his white linen shirt impeccably clean and smooth, every hint of a wrinkle ironed out. His doublet was sapphire blue and his breeches a soft gray. He was tall and lean, pale as they all were but with a straight, aristocratic nose and the handsome perfection that were typical of his kind. I closed my eyes again, hoping he’d think I was asleep.

  “She’s awake,” he said, calmly and I looked again, surprised to see his brows were drawn together as if he were annoyed. I know now that he was surprised. It’s very rare for the Infinite to betray honest emotion. They all have a default expression they wear whether it’s a smile, a frown, or boredom. Lord Marchant’s default expression is annoyance.