by David McAfee
He would never forget seeing her body in that alley, torn to shreds by some foul thing. It had been all he could do to keep from killing himself on the spot. But instead of giving in to grief, he allowed a burning anger to fill him. First Didius, then Marcus, Jesus, and finally Mary. He’d tried to avenge them, but the holes in his belly testified to yet another failure.
Taras continued along the path, looking at his shoes and thinking his dark thoughts, for several minutes. Soon, too soon for his liking, he arrived at his destination. Another tomb. He didn’t want to see it; didn’t want to read the name chiseled into the marker. It wasn’t the first time he balked. Some part of his mind tried to pretend it wasn’t real, that he’d imagined the name on the tomb. If he looked, he would have no such illusions. If he looked, any hope he had left would die yet again. But if he didn’t look he would have to avoid the place for the rest of his days.
Nights, rather.
Numb, Taras raised his eyes from his feet to read the name etched into the stone.
Mary.
No tears came to his eyes. Tears, apparently, were one more thing denied to him, along with sunlight and companionship. But not love. That, at least, he could still feel. It burned through him, more painful than the sun and hollower than his own heart. The fact that he could not show his grief with tears somehow made it worse.
He laid the flower in front of Mary’s tomb.
“I’m sorry, Mary,” he said, and turned to leave.
“As well you should be,” a voice behind him said. “Were it not for you, she would still be alive.”
Taras whirled to see a large, middle-aged man standing behind him, a sword clutched in his trembling hand. Taras recognized him immediatly.
“Abraham,” Taras said.
“I knew your funeral was a ruse, Roman.” Abraham said. “You filthy bastard. You just couldn’t help yourself, could you? You butchered my beautiful daughter and now you’ve come to see where they put her. Come to desecrate her tomb, now?”
Taras stepped back, shaking his head. “I know you won’t believe me, Abraham, but I loved Mary. I would no sooner have killed her than I would myself.”
“Liar!” Abraham spat. “You took her from my home and gutted her like… like an animal. I - I saw the body. I saw what you did to her.”
Taras noted the tears on Abraham’s cheeks. Another reminder of all he’d lost. Did Abraham think he was the only one Mary’s death had destroyed? “It’s true,” he said with as much calm as he could muster. “We were going to be married.”
“Married?” Abraham’s eyes narrowed, and his sword dipped an inch. “I didn’t give my permission for you to marry her.”
“And I didn’t ask for it.”
“It is forbidden for a Jewish maid to marry a Gentile.”
“I didn’t care.”
Abraham stared at Taras, his expression going from anger to confusion and then back to anger. “Is that why you killed her? She wouldn’t forsake her family and her people to marry you?” He spat on the ground at his feet. His eyes, wet with tears, bored into Taras. “She was too good for the likes of you, anyway.”
“She didn’t covet your blessing, Abraham, and she didn’t care about your laws, either. Mary left your home of her own will. She and I were going to Rome, where she would be free of you and the ridiculous laws of your people.”
“Save your lies for the devil, Roman.” Abraham stepped closer, raising his sword. “You’ll be meeting him soon enough.”
“Abraham, please don’t do this,” Taras said. He took a step back, pulling out his own blade. “I can’t be responsible for what might happen.” Already he had noticed the pulsing of blood just under the skin of Abraham’s neck. He could see the rhythmic rise and fall of the artery, and he could hear the blood flowing though it. It sounded to Taras like a cool fountain after a week spent wandering the desert. His grumbling belly lurched, and he doubled over in pain. He grit his teeth and noted something strange; his canines had grown. They were much longer than before, and sharper. He flicked his tongue over them and felt a sharp sting as they drew blood. The sweetly metallic taste of it filled his mouth like water to a man dying of dehydration.
And then he knew. He didn’t have to be cold anymore. He didn’t have to hurt any more. He knew how to fix his problem. Taras looked up at Abraham, who continued to advance on him with his sword drawn. Abraham’s blood sang to him. A siren’s song, begging Taras to act. To cut. To taste. To follow his budding instincts and feed. Gods, how he wanted it. No, needed it, and he had no idea why. Abraham’s throat called to Taras, and he was too weak not to answer.
“No,” Taras said, backing away. “No, please.”
“Yes,” Abraham replied. “You know what’s coming, don’t you Roman. Say hello to Lucifer when you arrive.” Abraham lunged forward and swung his blade at Taras's throat, a blow that would sever his head if it connected.
But it didn’t. Taras's hand shot up, his blade struck Abraham’s with the loud ring of steel on steel. He stood to face Mary’s father, towering over the older man. “I didn’t want to do this, Abraham.”
“No one wants to die, Roman,” Abraham replied as he pulled his sword back and swung again.
This time Taras angled his blade so that when Abraham’s sword clanged into his own it slid inward rather than stop short, knocking Abraham off balance. The maneuver also put Taras's free hand in easy reach of Abraham’s arm. A more experienced fighter would never have fallen for the move, but Abraham was a merchant, not a soldier. A fact he no doubt realized himself when Taras's left hand clamped down on his shoulder and pulled him close.
“Let go of me you bastard!” Abraham swore. “Let go of me and take your punishment like a man, you son of a—”
Abraham’s voice broke off when Taras brought the man’s face up to his own. Abraham’s eyes widened and his mouth clamped shut. Taras could feel him trembling under his hand. He heard the sound of steel on stone as Abraham’s sword fell to the ground.
“Son of a what, Abraham?” Taras asked.
Abraham shook his head. “What are you?”
“I don’t know.” It wasn’t a lie.
Abraham stared at Taras. Taras stared back at Abraham. The two stood that way for a full minute before Abraham broke the silence.
“Mary would never have married a demon like you.”
Taras couldn’t fight it anymore. What’s more, he discovered he no longer wanted to. He gave in to the pain and let it take him down a path he never imagined he would go.
Taras snapped his arm inward, yanking Abraham close. He put his other hand on the side of Abraham’s neck and forced his head into an odd angle, exposing his neck. Taras then drove his teeth into the man’s throat, twisting his head slightly to make the hole bigger. A river of blood flowed into his mouth, and Taras's knees nearly buckled from excitement. He clamped his lips down on Abraham’s neck and drew in as much of the stuff as he could swallow. Strength surged through him, and even as Abraham’s struggles grew weaker, Taras's arms, legs and torso grew stronger. The pain in his belly eased, and even the pain of losing Mary dimmed as his every sense exploded with rapture.
He didn’t feel cold anymore. The dark no longer hindered his vision. He smelled the petals of the red flower in front of Mary’s grave, and he heard the scuttling of a field mouse thirty paces away. Most of all, he tasted the warmth of Abraham’s blood, sweet and coppery, filling his every pore with life and renewed energy.
Taras couldn’t stop. He drank until there was nothing left.
Chapter Thirty One
Theron led Ramah through the city, dodging the occasional legionary and Jerusalem’s glowing citizenry. They arrived at the building where Theron had left Simon’s body the night before and climbed up the side. On the roof, He looked around until he spied a pile of clothes, covered in ashes, which lay unmoving in the still air. He pointed it out to Ramah. “There. That’s where I left Simon”
Ramah wandered over and picked up the dead
vampire’s tunic. He shook out the ashes, which were all that remained of Simon, and handed it to Theron. “Did you search him?”
Theron shook his head. “I was in a hurry.”
“Do it now.”
Theron grabbed the tunic and felt through it, not knowing what he was looking for. He discovered a bulge in one of the inside pockets and reached inside. His fingers closed around something small and cylindrical. He pulled it out and discovered it to be a small scroll case. He opened it up and upended it, dropping a rolled piece of parchment into his palm. It was sealed with the red wax the Council favored, and emblazoned in the dollop was the seal fromHerris’ ring, marking it as an official order from the Headcouncil himself.
Theron broke the seal and unrolled the parchment, half expecting to find the order for his arrest, just as Simon has said, and was considerably surprised to discover the missive was for him, instead.
Dear Theron,
You will note this letter is addressed to you. We all knew Simon would fail in his task. He will not be missed. Our race is better off without his jealous and reckless ilk. We found the body of his twin brother in our tunnels, leading us to believe the two were working together on something. We believe the goal was to discredit and kill you. Obviously they failed.
Yet, you have violated the same law as Simon. By leading a human to our house in Jerusalem, you endangered our people. As Lead Enforcer, you know this can not be tolerated. Therefore you must be punished for your lack of judgment.
But you have proven quite valuable to the Council over the last nine hundred years. Therefore, you are being given one final chance at redemption. Turn yourself in to the Council. Come this very night, and your punishment will not be as severe. Do not think to run from justice. You know Ramah will find you regardless of where you go. If you make this easy, your sentence will be less. You will only serve one hundred years as a Lost One. If you make us hunt you, Theron, your punishment will be one thousand years.
The decision is yours to make. We trust you will make the correct one and keep your honor intact.
Herris
Theron’s hands shook as he finished reading. So that was it. The Council did know about Taras. He cursed and threw the scroll case to the rooftop. He’d been betrayed by his own kind, after all.
He stood still and silent on the roof, musing over this latest turn of events. How could the Council hand him so severe a punishment for such a minor offense as allowing a human to see the gatehouse and a Lost One. But there it was, in Herris’ own blood. They had even sent a disposable servant to deliver the message, knowing he would not return. Theron knew the Council sent Simon to his death both to rid them of the annoying clerk and to show Theron they could be as devious as they were merciless. As added insurance, they sent Ramah immediately after, knowing Simon could never hope to kill Theron.
And that was just because of the incident with Taras. What would the Council do when they learned of the situation in Jerusalem? Theron had only to go to the Damascus Gate to see it was no longer safe for a vampire here, and according to Ramah the effect was spreading all over Israel. He had little doubt the Council would find some way to blame him, as Ramah did. What would be his punishment, then? A thousand years? Five thousand? Or would they simply kill him outright?
Of the three, Theron would prefer the last. He rolled the letter in his hands, stuck it in the pocket of his own tunic, and looked at Ramah. “They sent you to collect me.” It wasn’t a question.
“Of course they sent me,” Ramah said, unknowingly echoing Theron’s own words to Ephraim.
“But why? I would have returned to the Halls on my own once my mission was complete. Why send someone to collect me?”
“You can feel free to ask Herris when you arrive.”
Theron knew better. Asking Herris why he did anything was tantamount to questioning his authority. Theron would spend the next ten thousand years dripping maggots from his bones if he were to be so bold.
“I suspect,” Ramah said, “That they simply wanted to see what you would do.”
So he was an experiment, now, a measure of the Council’s hold on their faithful. Brilliant. Just brilliant. Bad enough to be disgraced, but to be used for the Council’s amusement? It was humiliating.
Jesus's words came back to haunt him: You have been lied to, vampire, and you have been betrayed.
By The Father! He’d worked so hard for this. He’d come so very close to glory only to have it pulled away by a damn legionary and some anonymous, grave-robbing friend of the blasted Nazarene. All his goals, gone in less than a week. A hundred years as a Lost One. It might as well be ten thousand.
He looked up at Ramah. The Councilor’s expression was hard, his brow knotted. Theron was no fool; he knew he had no chance of escaping Ramah. That’s why the Council sent him; they knew his presence would ensure Theron’s cooperation. Knowing Ramah, the Councilor probably hoped he would run, just so he would have an excuse to kill him.
He looked around; noting the streets of the city had thinned over the last hour. The glowing bastards must have finally gotten sleepy and taken to their beds, meaning it would be a simple and fast walk to the Gatehouse by the Damascus Gate. Too short, most likely, for Theron’s tastes.
“Well, Theron?” Ramah asked. “Shall we go?”
Theron bit his lip. He couldn’t believe the words even as they came from his mouth. “All right. Let’s go see Herris.”
Ramah looked disappointed.
Chapter Thirty Two
Taras stepped over the prone body of the dead soldier and walked through the Damascus Gate. Both the guards at the gate were dead. Taras had drank his fill from them and left their corpses in the street, much as he’d done to the three bandits on the road between the Mount of Olives and Jerusalem. Each kill made him stronger and faster, and he’d run most of the way, relishing the sting of the wind on his face. Now, as he entered the city, he felt more than strong; he was invincible. He grabbed a torch from the wall and a bucket of pitch from the guardhouse. Then he stepped through the gate and into the city.
The streets of Jerusalem stood empty around him. Taras cursed his luck even as he breathed a sigh of relief. If there were no people nearby, he would not be tempted to kill them. Not that killing was anything new to him. As an assassin in the Roman Legion, he’d always been dangerous, but never like this. Then he’d been a killer, but now?
Now he was a predator. A wolf in man’s clothing. Taras, former legionary in the great empire of Rome, was no longer human.
He walked to the house where he’d first seen the demon-thing. He had no trouble finding it; he’d know the wretched place anywhere. This was where it all started to go wrong. Once he saw the demon, everything had changed. Gordian ambushed him and sent him to the rack. Taras recalled his escape from the fat man, and how the voice ordering his death had sounded familiar. He cursed himself for not recognizing the voice. If he hadn’t been so dazed by pain, he might have saved the life of an innocent man. But instead Jesus died on a cross, and Taras's weakness helped to put him there.
Well, Taras wasn’t weak anymore. He walked up to the door and pulled on the handle. Locked. No matter. Going inside hadn’t been his plan anyway.
He walked around the building, pouring the bucket of pitch on the wooden exterior of the building. He started with the front door, wanting to make sure nothing could escape that way, then went to each dusty window and pasted the frames. He got some of the stuff on himself, as well, but paid it no attention.
Satisfied he’d covered all the exits with pitch, he walked around the house a second time, setting the doors and windows alight. The flames took to the pitch instantly, and the wooden house went up fast. A cloud of acrid smoke rose into the night sky, cutting it in half with a hazy gray line. The air above the building filled with sparks. Taras smiled and tossed the empty bucket to the ground.
Waves of searing heat rolled off the burning structure, forcing him to back away. He crossed the street and took co
ver in a nearby alley, watching to make sure nothing escaped the flames. He had to force himself to remain still when the people of the city started pouring from their houses, shouting and pointing at the blaze. He could smell their blood already. Hell, he could almost taste it. One man ran to the gatehouse to rouse the guards, and Taras heard him scream when he found the bodies.
Without clear leadership, the people who lived by the Damascus Gate took a long time to get organized, running and screaming like a gaggle of frightened children. Taras had to force himself to keep from running into their midst and picking them off one by one. So many people. So much blood. He gripped the side of a building, his fingers denting the wood, and braced himself against the mad wave of hunger that kicked him in the gut. He would not go on another killing spree. He would not.
But damn it all, he was still so hungry.
He somehow maintained his composure and sat back to watch the spectacle of the people trying to put out the blaze. Curiously, he noted some of them shone in the night, possessing an unearthly sheen like that surrounding the full moon, while others didn’t. Taras had no idea why that would be, but for some reason the glow irritated him. Looking at them caused the hairs on the back of his neck to prickle. It didn’t matter. All he cared about was the fire, and he watched as it devoured the cursed house where his life had begun to unravel.
I’ll see you in Hell, Ephraim, or whatever your name is, he thought.
* * *
