by David McAfee
Only a few blocks from the tavern, the man slowed and peered into an alley. With his hand on the top of his pants, he changed direction and wandered into the dark space between the two buildings, yanking the front of his pants down as he went.
Taras closed the distance in half a second, and stood listening to the sound of liquid splashing on the wooden side of the building. The man had been drinking a great deal from the pot in his hand. Taras was surprised he hadn’t run out of the stuff, come to think of it. The man had been drinking it from almost the moment he’d left the tavern, he…
Damn! Taras should have seen it sooner.
He turned just in time to avoid the clawed hands of one of the Council’s minions. Taras ducked under the blow, feeling the wind of the other vampire’s hand rustle his hair. He rolled to the side, away from the alley, and sprang to his feet, clawed hands at the ready.
Three vampires faced him, including the “drunk,” who had left the alley to stand with his comrades. They would be Council vampires, probably low-level ones, at that. Not nearly as powerful as the one Taras had fought in Jerusalem. The Council didn’t seem to consider him much of a threat, so they only sent lackeys after him.
“Well done, Roman,” the middle vampire, a female, purred. “You’ve learned much with no one to teach you.”
Taras said nothing.
The female was tall but thin. She had the dark hair and eyes of the people who lived just north of the Mediterranean. Her pale cheeks looked hollow and sunken, as though she’d died of starvation rather than being killed by a Bachiyr. She was so thin she seemed emaciated and frail, but Taras knew better than to underestimate her. A vampire’s strength doesn’t have anything to do with muscle.
The other two didn’t leave much of an impression. The one on the left was short and a bit pudgy, and the one on the right, who’d pretended to be the drunken man, was only slightly taller than his friend, with a gleaming bald pate and eyes the color of ashes. Judging by her stance and her words, the woman was the leader of the three.
“Nothing to say?” she asked. “Don’t you want to know who we are?”
Taras said nothing. He knew already. They were Enforcers. Just like the last ones that had come to kill him. And the ones before that, and the ones before that. They caught up to him every once in a while, although Taras had lived in relative peace here in Londinium for nearly as decade. He had begun to imagine himself almost safe, but apparently not. They had taken longer than normal, but they had found him again just the same. Not that it mattered. They would die just like all the others before them.
“Have it your way,” she said, and the two male vampires sprung from her side and charged.
Taras waited until they were nearly on him, then he spun on his heel and sunk to the ground. His outstretched leg tripped the bald Bachiyr, who landed face first in the street. The other vampire’s wild swing went over Taras’s head, and he followed the first kick through, raising his leg enough to strike the overbalanced second vampire in the middle of his back. He fell to the ground just as his bald comrade was getting back to his feet.
Taras rammed his clawed fingers into the back of the bald one’s neck, sinking them to his knuckles, and grabbed hold of the vertebrae. With no time for finesse-his other opponent was already rising from the street-he twisted his wrist, separating the bones in the Bachiyr’s neck and rending the flesh of his throat.
As the bald vampire’s head fell to the cobbles, his companion regained his feet and turned around. He looked at his fallen comrade, snarled, and launched himself at Taras in a flurry of whirling claws.
Taras shook his head as he blocked a clumsy strike with his left hand and sidestepped the charging vampire. Using his opponent’s momentum against him, Taras swung him by his shirt and slammed his head into a nearby wall. The wood cracked and splintered, and the vampire’s head broke through the outer wall.
His opponent stood there, hunched over like a man in the stocks, until Taras plunged his claws into the fellow’s back, sending a spray of blood into the air. His arm made a wet slurping sound as he forced it inward, reaching through his innards until he felt the Bachiyr’s heart. Taras wrapped his hand around it and began to squeeze.
Despite the frantic thrashing of his victim, it was over in only a few seconds. Once Taras squeezed the heart to pulp, the body went limp.
He pulled his hand from the dead vampire’s back and turned to face the woman, who stood watching him with a satisfied grin. She had not moved a muscle through the entire encounter. Her coal black eyes glittered with amusement.
“How fresh were they?” Taras asked. They couldn’t have been more than a few weeks turned if they knew so little about fighting another Bachiyr.
“I turned them ten days ago,” she answered.
Taras nodded. He’d guessed as much.
“There are more coming,” she said.
“There always are.”
“True enough.” She circled around him, her eyes never leaving his gore-covered hands. “The Council will never let you live.”
Taras shrugged. He’d never asked their permission.
“My name is Octavia,” she said. “Have you heard of me?”
Taras hadn’t. He watched her walk around him, putting her body between him and the street. Obviously, she thought rather highly of herself.
“That’s too bad.” Octavia stopped, then brought up her hands in a fighting stance. The pose struck Taras as familiar. He’d seen several of the smallish men from the far east adopt similar poses prior to a fight. The prowess of those men had amazed him. If this vampire knew their secrets, he might be in trouble. He squared his shoulders, bringing his clawed hands to the ready.
“It doesn’t have to be bad, Taras,” she said, licking her lips. Octavia glanced meaningfully up and down his body.
Taras stared. Did she really mean to lay with him? He tried to hold his laughter inside, but a chuckle burst through despite his best efforts to keep silent. Octavia’s face darkened. The smile at the corners of her mouth fell away, and a look of genuine anger marred the fine skin of her forehead.
“Did I say something funny?” she asked.
“I’m not that big a fool, Octavia,” Taras replied. He brought his clawed hands up to his face and waved her forward. “Let’s get this over with.”
Octavia lunged forward, her speed nearly catching Taras off guard. He stepped to the side and managed to avoid the worst of the blow, but her claws sunk into his shoulder and drew three bright red lines of blood in his flesh.
He whirled to face her and was met by her foot as it smashed into his nose. The bright flare of pain and the loud crack informed him she’d broken it. He staggered backward, half blinded by his own blood, and tripped over the body of one of her companions. His head hit the street just as she sailed over him, her claws extended outward. If he hadn’t tripped when he did, doubtless she would have skewered him.
He wiped a sleeve across his eyes, clearing away some of the blood. The first thing he saw was Octavia coming at him again, leading with her right hand. Taras stayed motionless on his back, waiting until she got close enough, then kicked up with his foot, catching her in the solar plexus and launching her into the air, but not before she’d dug those claws several inches into his belly.
He swore as he stared at the deep gouges she’d cut across his abdomen. That hurt. Not enough to incapacitate him, but still painful. If he’d been mortal that would have done serious damage. The Council’s servants were getting better.
Taras shot to his feet just in time to see Octavia slam into a wall. The sounds of splintering wood and pain filled the street, echoing off the buildings around him. Taras ducked into a fighting stance, echoing the pose from his training in Rome. Squat, feet shoulder width apart, bent slightly at the knees. Fists coiled and ready at chest height. He could launch an attack from this position with foot or fist. Thus readied, he waited for Octavia to emerge from the pile of wood and dust.
She didn’t.<
br />
After a full minute with no movement other than the settling cloud of dust, Taras relaxed a little and looked closer at the scene. The wall across from him sported a large, jagged hole. Splinters of wood and shattered beams jutted out from all angles, pointing like accusing fingers. A single booted leg hung outside the hole, and a large red puddle was forming underneath it.
Then the smell hit his nose. Blood. Lots of it.
He walked over to the hole, keeping his fists ready, and stared over the edge at Octavia. She lay pinned beneath a fallen support beam, her pale features twisted in pain. Through her chest, just left of where he heart should be, a sharply splintered piece of timber had torn through her flesh. Blood welled up among the wound to drip slowly onto the floor. The piece of wood glinted red in the dim light.
Octavia raised her hand and pointed at him. Her lips moved, but no words came from them. Her eyes narrowed, and she put her hand on the beam across her belly and gave it a shove. It didn’t budge, but that didn’t stop her from trying.
“How did you find me?” Taras asked.
Octavia shook her head, a snarl on her pale lips.
That worried him. He’d been very careful not to leave a trail this time. In the past the hunters had tracked him by his kills, but for the last ten years he’d been feeding only when necessary, and he’d always disposed of the bodies afterward. He’d thought himself safe in Londinium. It was fairly remote and not densely populated, at least not by the standards of the Roman empire. True, the city had grown quickly, but it couldn’t be large enough to attract the attention of the other Bachiyr.
Could it?
Taras looked down at the squirming, hissing vampire in the rubble and realized he was wrong. Londinium had gotten too big. He wasn’t safe here anymore.
Octavia stared needles into him, even as her eyes glazed over. She wasn’t dead yet. In all honesty he wasn’t sure her injuries would kill her anyway. His kind seemed to be able to survive a lot. But if someone didn’t lift that beam off her belly and free her before dawn the morning sun would turn her into ashes.
The thought occurred to him that he’d never fed from another of his kind. He was hungry, and Octavia no doubt deserved his ire. He could feed from her with a clear conscience. She probably still had enough blood in her to satisfy his hunger. What would it do? Would it be stronger than a human’s blood? Weaker? Would it kill him?
Taras thought about that last question. If he drank from another Bachiyr and it killed him, would it matter?
Twenty seven years ago, a dead rabbi had told him there was always a choice, even though it might not be a good one. He’d meant that Taras could kill himself if he really wanted to, rather than live out his years as a monster. But he wasn’t ready to die back then. Nor was he ready now. He would leave her blood intact.
Taras turned his back on her and started walking. Maybe someone would stumble through this area tonight and find her stuck there, maybe not. If so, she would surely kill her rescuers. She’d lost a lot of blood and would need to replace it. Taras couldn’t bring himself to feel pity for them. Hell, he wanted to find someone to feed on, too. As he walked away, it occurred to him that he should just kill her and be done, eliminating her as a witness and as a danger to others. But if the Council already knew he was here it wouldn’t do much good. They’d be coming for him anyway.
The time had come to leave Britannia.
5
Theron bounced along the road to Londinium, looking like nothing more than another driver as he approached the high, wooden walls of the city. His clothes-brought over from Spain-were plain and a bit dirty, as would be expected of a traveler on the dusty road from the coast. His matted black hair needed attention, but for now his unkempt appearance would help him get through the gates unmolested. The city walls were solid, but not especially tall. If things at the gate went badly he could likely climb over before anyone spotted him. Of course, he could also kill the two guards at the gate, but that would make noise and cause an alert that would rouse the city guard, and he didn’t want to fight off hundreds of armed Roman soldiers.
He needn’t have worried. The guards barely spared him a bored glance as he passed. Three other late wagons rolled through the gates behind him. At the same time, a dozen or so wagons were leaving, along with a score of people on foot. Londinium, it seemed, was a city used to people coming and going at all hours of the day.
The smells of dust and sweat mingled in the air, along with those of mead and meat. The market had long closed, but the city was not empty. The streets buzzed with people, many of whom streamed out of the city, turning north at the gate. Up and down the street, windows were boarded and doors locked as people left their homes and businesses to flee the city. Not a good sign.
He caught snatches of conversation from some of the passers-by.
“…Camulodunum is gone. Burned to the ground…”
“…not a soul left alive…”
“…coming here next…”
“…Suetonius is leaving…”
“…taking most of the soldiers with him…”
“…ordered the city evacuated…”
So that’s why the people were leaving the city. Apparently the Iceni queen and her horde were on the march to Londinium. Theron could hardly blame the people, he’d heard what happened to Camulodunum; buildings razed, citizens tortured and killed, the whole city was left a smoldering ruin by the Iceni and their allies. And now they were coming here, and the Roman general Suetonius was leaving the city to burn. Small wonder the people were walking over one another to get out. Theron smelled their fear. Ordinarily he would have enjoyed it, but now it meant he needed to get in, do what he came to do, and get out. Would Taras still be here? Or would he have already left? Too many damn questions.
He steered the horses to a nearby trough and tied the cart to a post. He would not be using it again, and it would probably be stolen shortly after he left it. That, too, would be a good thing. The less evidence he left behind, the better. It had been twenty seven years since he had defied the Council and set out on his own, and he hadn’t lived this long by taking chances. Despite the fact that the city would soon perish under the weight of tens of thousands of Iceni raiders, he would still avoid any unnecessary risks.
Then again, just being in Londinium presented a risk in itself. The city had grown large enough that the Council had probably gained enough interest in the region to put a portal here. Nothing fancy, of course. The building would just resemble a dilapidated structure somewhere in the city walls. It wouldn’t look like much, but it would be a gateway to untold numbers of the Council’s minions.
Theron made a mental note to be extra careful. If he spotted any sign of the Council, he would leave. But for now, the bait was too tempting not to try and get a bite.
Taras. That damned former legionary who’d somehow managed to turn Theron’s world upside down by being alive when he was supposed to be dead. True, Theron’s own carelessness led to Taras’s transformation, but if the bastard had just taken him to Jesus’ tomb when he asked, Theron would still be in good standing with his people. He could have gone to the tomb, taken the rabbi’s head, and then presented it to the Council as proof of a job well done. He would still be Lead Enforcer, and privy to the Halls of the Bachiyr, with his own apartments and amenities. He would still be able to enjoy all the benefits of his once lofty status.
Instead he was strolling through a doomed city in stolen peasant’s garb and trying not to arouse the suspicion of a few human guards. Humiliating.
He stepped off the cart and into the street, taking a good, long look at the people leaving the city. Not a single one of them glowed, he noted with more than a little relief. Apparently the fires of faith that burned so brightly in Jerusalem after the death of Jesus had not reached this far. Good. Doubtless the Roman gods ruled here, or possibly the gods of the local people. Either way, it would make his job easier. If he didn’t have to contend with any faithful Jews or any follo
wers of the dead rabbi, then he should be fine as long as he didn’t linger. The Iceni could arrive any day. He gave himself one night to find Taras. If he could not locate Taras in that time he would leave the city and try again some other night.
He walked away from the horses and cart, leaving them tied to the post, threading his way through the exodus of people leaving Londinium. The man back in Spain had said something about the Market district. That made sense. Markets were usually crowded and busy, full of people who had more important things to do than watch a stranger. There would be plenty of people to feed from in a city like this: prostitutes, beggars, thieves. Lots of humans no one would miss. And most of them would be in the Market district.
Theron stepped slowly through the city. He had plenty of time. The sun had only set two hours ago. The peasant who owned the cart had filled his belly well, so he didn’t need to feed. He could take his time and learn the layout of the streets, which would be especially handy if he had to make a fast getaway. As he watched yet another family leave their home, carrying their possessions over their shoulders, he realized that the need for a fast escape might be a distinct possibility.
***
Boudica stepped from the tub, the warm water running down her body and pooling on the floor. Her youngest daughter Lannosea waited nearby with a soft robe, and she slipped her arms into the sleeves, wincing as the fabric touched the scars on her back. The pain was only mental, she told herself. The tissues had healed months ago. Still, whenever anything touched the sensitive scar tissue, it reminded her of those days immediately after the flogging when her skin felt like it was on fire, and the slightest touch was agony.
Her daughter’s eyes dropped to the ground. She didn’t like the reminders, either. Boudica had been flogged by the Romans, but her daughters had been beaten and raped at the hands of the guttural legionaries. All in all, the queen felt she’d gotten off easier than they.
