by David McAfee
“Oh, yes,” Jesus said, “From the moment Ephraim first came to me. It was easy to see the taint of the one you call The Father on him. I pitied him, as I pity you.”
“You are the one in the stocks, Nazarene, not me,” Theron said. “You should save your pity for yourself.”
“You have been lied to, vampire,” Jesus said, a touch of sadness in his voice. “And you have been betrayed. You have lived a false life for a false purpose. Your people are nothing more than a ruse for an evil you cannot begin to understand.”
Theron removed his hand from the door handle and stepped into the room, moving closer to the stocks. He approached with balled fists, ready to strike. His mounting anger gave him the strength to approach through the burning glare of Jesus's faith.
Jesus looked down at Theron’s fists. “That is how Ephraim came to me, also. Like you, he came with an angry heart, ready to draw my blood. He knew the truth, and so do you. I can see it in your eyes. But unlike you, Ephraim was willing to listen. Oh, not to me, of course. Not at first, anyway. But to himself.”
Theron froze, unsure of the Nazarene’s meaning.
“He tried to tell you, didn’t he? At the end?” Jesus asked. “But you didn’t want to listen. Your elders have not been honest with you or your people. You have been manipulated for nine hundred years by beings a thousand times more deceptive and evil than yourself. You are meaningless, you know. Dust to those you serve. Less, even. Ephraim came to realize this. He—”
“To the Abyss with Ephraim!” Theron snapped. “He is dead. I killed him myself. He is dust, rabbi, not me. I am the Lead Enforcer and trusted servant of the Council of Thirteen. Unlike Ephraim, I will not fall for your tricks, Jesus of Nazareth, so keep your lies to yourself.”
“Yes, Theron,” Jesus replied. “I know of Ephraim’s demise. The great Theron has slain him. Tell me, vampire, did it help? Did Ephraim’s blood restore warmth and sunlight to your path? Or do you still walk in darkness and the chill?”
Theron didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to. Jesus answered for him.
“It didn’t, did it? Nothing in your lightless world can restore that which you have lost. You will spend an eternity as you are now; cold inside, forever hating the life you can no longer possess. It is a pointless cycle of death that binds you. Ephraim knew this, though he could not admit it, and he came to me seeking the very same thing: salvation. I showed him it was not too late, and it wasn’t. Not for him and not for you.”
“What the devil is that supposed to mean?” Theron asked. He tried to sound haughty, but the conviction had left his voice.
“Forgiveness,” Jesus said, and a single tear fell from his eye and landed in the puddle of blood on the floor. “It’s never too late to be forgiven.”
“Forgiveness?” Theron whispered, and something inside him warmed at the thought. Until that moment, he hadn’t realized he sought it, but upon hearing the rabbi’s words, he knew them to be true. A longing for it haunted him, deep down where he had to look very hard to see it. But it was there. It hid, staring at him. Judging him. Always reminding him of the evil thing he truly was. He’d tried for centuries to drown it in blood, but it never went away.
The realization struck him like a physical blow, almost knocking him from his feet and forcing him a step backward. For the first time in hundreds of years, Theron thought about the many foul things he’d committed in the name of his people. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of lives taken, gallons of blood spilled both for amusement and to quench a thirst he knew in his heart to be an aberration. He remembered the taut, screaming faces of the people he’d tortured, their mouths stretched wide with pain. Their images surfaced in his mind’s eye, accusing him, making him feel unclean. Foul.
Too much, he thought. He’d done too much evil. His soul, such as it was, would be forever tainted with the deaths of thousands. He held his hands up to his face, remembering the feel of them around countless throats as he squeezed the life away from so many. In the darkness of the cell, they looked red. Fitting, since they were stained with the blood of so many.
“It’s too much,” he whispered, not realizing he spoke aloud. “Too late.”
“It’s never too late,” Jesus replied, “to seek forgiveness.”
Forgiveness? Theron looked beyond his hands, to the torch on the wall. The flame danced and swayed, sending the shadows of the chamber reeling. Could it be true? He looked around the chamber, his eyes lighting upon the old bloodstains that the Romans had never bothered to clean up. The newer ones resembled a rust-colored moss. It looked like any number of rooms Theron had visited over the years. Many others just like this one, in which Theron himself had been the one to spill the blood. Countless victims, all crying for mercy but never receiving it. He'd listened to their screams and laughed. Could he really find absolution?
Not likely. Forgiveness was not for the likes of Theron. Jesus had to be lying, he had to be. Theron could never be forgiven, not by the rabbi’s God, and certainly not by his victims. How could he? Theron could never even forgive himself.
“Damn you,” he said. “Gods damn you, Nazarene. Enjoy your trip to Golgotha!” Blinded by his anger, Theron forgot the aura of faith around Jesus, and struck the captured rabbi with a closed fist. As soon as his flesh touched that of the Nazarene, a bright light flared around his hand and a tendril of fire leapt up his arm. Hissing, he snatched his hand back and smothered the flames with his cloak. Once he extinguished the fire, he looked at his forearm. The skin of his knuckles where he’d come into direct contact with Jesus's flesh was burned and blackened. It felt like he’d dipped his hand into a vat of molten steel, and for a brief moment the pain clouded out all rational thought.
Then, slowly, the pain faded, but the skin of his hand remained charred. When he regained his clear headedness, he looked at Jesus through narrowed eyes. His legs buckled and he nearly fell. The touch of Jesus's skin had left him feeling weak and helpless, like he’d just been in a pitched battle and lost. He felt dizzy and disoriented, but mostly he felt angry. He again spat at the ground under the prisoner’s head, and this time his spittle landed in the puddle of Jesus's blood. There was a pop and a sizzle, then silence. Jesus never took his eyes from Theron’s face.
“It doesn’t have to hurt, Bachiyr,” Jesus said.
“Go to Hell, Nazarene,” Theron replied, and took a step back. “You will die tomorrow. I will be here long after your bones have turned to dust and the world has forgotten your name." He turned his back on the prisoner and stumbled to the door. His fingers trembled as they wrapped around the handle.
Jesus's voice came from behind him. “Remember what I said, vampire. Forgiveness. It’s waiting for you, but you must be willing to seek it. Even now it’s not too late.”
Theron didn’t turn around. “To Hell with your forgiveness,” he said. He opened the door and stepped out into the hall, leaving Jesus to his fate.
* * *
“What in the Abyss was that flash of light?” The guard asked as he rushed up to see to Theron. His eyes found the vampire’s injured hand. “What did he do to you?”
“Nothing.” Theron replied. “I was using a torch to try and get some information from him, but I used too much pitch and burned myself, instead. I’m fine. I’ll stop by the infirmary when I leave here.” The last wasn’t a lie; Theron still had to deal with Taras.
The guard looked unconvinced, but said nothing more about it. “Too bad. You missed an interesting conversation with one of the guards stationed near the temple. He came in from his break to see Jesus. I wouldn’t let him through since you were already in there, but he told me about a Passover tradition, and that Pilate might free Jesus tomorrow because of it. He even said—”
Theron's sword silence the guard. He would have liked to use his claws, but the wound on his hand still burned, so he settled for cold steel. The legionary’s eyes widened as Theron’s fangs extended, and it was clear the man intended to scream. Theron twisted the blade as he’d
done to Claudius, and the grimace that crossed the guard’s face brought a measure of relief to his spinning mind.
You have been lied to, Vampire, and you have been betrayed.
He shook his head. Willing the unwanted thoughts to go away. He stood for a moment, staring at the dying guard. This is who I am. This is what I do. Theron growled, then yanked the blade free, watching as the man fell to the stone floor, his life ebbing away in a growing pool of crimson. He felt stronger, and he glared at the fallen soldier. This is power, he thought, not forgiveness. Yet even as he thought it, he recognized the small spark deep inside him that longed for something else. A return to the light. The thought filled him with peace, and it also paralyzed him with fear. He shut his eyes and forced such thoughts from his mind until the relative clarity of his anger returned. This was all Jesus's fault. Damn him, he thought. Damn the Nazarene! He licked the points of his teeth as he watched the guard’s blood spill away. He still needed to feed; the encounter with Jesus had taken a lot out of him. The soldier still lived, though only just. It would be easy enough to feed before going to see Taras.
“Good job,” a voice behind him said. “Now let us out!”
Theron, shocked that he’d almost fed right in front of a human, whirled to see a haggard, filthy face pressed to the hole in one of the doors.
“Who are you?” Theron asked.
“Zealots, like yourself. Aren’t you here to rescue us?”
Theron was about to tell the man no, and to enjoy his stay in Hell, when an idea occurred to him. So, Pilate might let Jesus go, eh? Not if I can help it. He looked up and down the hall. In total, it contained eight rooms, and at least three of them held prisoners whose faces pressed against the doors.
He still needed to see Taras. The guard’s revelation that Pilate might pardon Jesus made the need even more pressing. These men would provide a perfect distraction. He unlocked every door except the one to Jesus's cell, and even let two men out of the stocks. By the time he finished he’d freed five zealots in all. Theron tossed one of them the dead guard’s sword and carefully instructed them on how to get out of the barracks.
“What is your name, friend?” One of them, the one with the sword, asked.
“Ephraim,” Theron lied.
“I am Barabbas,” the man said, and saluted. Theron returned the salute with as much grace and severity as he could muster while thinking to himself the gesture looked ridiculous. “Go. All of you. God speed, now.”
The zealots turned and ran up the hall, and Theron stifled the urge to laugh as he watched them run to their doom. The directions he gave them would send the whole group right into the legionaries’ sleeping quarters. When the legionaries awoke and discovered five escaped zealots in their midst, the alarm would be loud and long. In the confusion it should be easy enough for him to finish his business with Taras.
Theron walked up the passage, looking for the infirmary. As luck would have it, he found it just as the zealots were discovered free of their cells. The alarm rang all through the barracks, and the two guards stationed outside the infirmary door, bored with their duty, left their post and ran to see what the commotion was about.
Theron entered the room and saw Taras lying on a cot against the wall. The man looked stretched and thin, weak as a babe. It would have been all too easy to kill him right then, but Theron’s plan had changed.
Pilate might free Jesus tomorrow out of tradition. The guard’s words came back to him. Passover. How could he have forgotten? If Pontius Pilate decided the next morning to let Jesus go free, Theron would be unable to stop him. After all, Theron could not go out into the sunlight. Damn it all, nothing about this assignment was going according to plan. Well, all that was about to change. Theron might not be able to stand in the sunlight and manipulate Pilate, but Taras could. Jesus would not be set free tomorrow, and Taras would see to it. He walked over to the cot and shook the sleeping legionary’s shoulder.
When Taras opened his eyes and saw who’d awakened him, he tried to scream. Theron clamped his hand over the prone soldier’s lips.
“Hush now, Taras, Theron said. “I won’t hurt you.” As he spoke, he pictured fingers in his mind; similar to those he’d used to charm Marcus the previous night. The fingers grew longer and longer until they extended to the legionary, then they wrapped around his head and held it in place, sinking slightly beneath the surface of the skin and burrowing into his psyche. Taras's heartbeat slowed to normal, and his breathing evened out. When his victim hadn’t blinked for a count of sixty, Theron removed his hand from Taras's mouth.
“That’s better,” he said.
“What do you want?” Taras asked. "Have you come to finish me off?”
“Of course not. I just want to help.”
“Help with what?”
“Seeing Jesus brought to justice, of course.”
“Jesus?” Taras sounded confused, then his eyes caught fire. “Jesus! That damn zealot. Where is Marcus?” Taras asked. “I have to tell him about—”
“Marcus is dead,” Theron interrupted.
“What? How?”
“He and a group of soldiers arrested Jesus a few hours ago in the Gardens of Gethsemane. On their way back into the city, several of Jesus's men attacked. They overwhelmed Marcus and two of his men, but not before the rest managed to escape with Jesus in tow. Angry at their failure, Jesus's men butchered the centurion. They removed his head and threw it into the dirt. Zealots, all of them. And Jesus is their leader.”
“You are no better, whoever you are,” Taras said with a surprising note of defiance. “I saw the real Ephraim’s body. He carried a letter for Malachi. Warning him that people were coming who would try to kill them both. Ephraim’s own seal was pressed into the wax. I also saw you enter the house near the Damascus Gate. The one with the demon inside.”
Theron, stunned, couldn't speak. He saw me enter the Gatehouse? He saw a Lost One? He hadn’t realized he’d been so careless. He hoped the Council didn’t know. On top of that, Taras had seen the real Ephraim’s body. No wonder the mind hold wasn’t working as well as it should.
Thinking fast, he managed to come up with an excuse that, when combined with the influence he wielded on Taras's mind, he hoped would satisfy the legionary. “I don’t know whose body you saw, but it wasn’t mine. My ring was stolen from me three weeks ago while I slept outside of Jesus's camp. As for the house, you were meant to see it, and the demon as well. I knew you were following me. I wanted you to see the creatures this ‘Messiah’ has aligned himself with. Did you like what you saw?”
Taras, looking confused and afraid, didn’t say anything. He simply shook his head.
“I thought not. Jesus must be stopped, Taras. Pilate doesn’t know about Jesus's plans to overthrow Rome because Marcus didn’t live long enough to tell him. So tomorrow Pilate may release him out of Jewish tradition. You must make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“But I can’t walk. I can barely speak. How am I going to stop him?”
“I will help you. I can make you strong again.”
A tear welled up in Taras's eye as he looked down at his ruined body. The knees and elbows were stretched beyond repair, or so it looked to him. Theron could read Taras's thoughts through the link between their minds, and he could feel the man’s despair at what he thought were permanent wounds. Theron could have told him he would almost assuredly heal in a matter of weeks, but it suited his purpose for Taras to believe otherwise. He needed him on his side tomorrow, while the sun was up. It wouldn’t hurt for the legionary to think he’d been spared by a miracle.
“You-you can do that?” Taras asked.
“I can, and I will. First you must promise me, no matter what it takes, Jesus will not walk free tomorrow.”
Through their mental connection, Theron saw the image of Marcus form in Taras's mind, and he felt the pain of his loss along with the anger for those responsible. He could also see that Taras still doubted him, but despite his misgivings, the legionary d
esperately wanted to believe Theron’s words. He wanted to believe he could be saved, and he wanted to believe the man who could do so stood in front of him, trying to convince him to save Rome, as well.
“Do we have a deal?” Theron asked.
After a few seconds’ hesitation, Taras nodded.
“Swear it.”
“I swear,” Taras said in a harsh whisper. “On my life, Jesus will pay for his crimes. I will see it done if it's the last thing I ever do.”
“Excellent, Taras. Then I will help you. Sleep now. When you wake, your body will be whole. Do not forget your promise.”
Taras's eyes closed, and before a full minute passed he was in a deep slumber, enhanced to no small degree by the psalm Theron cast on him. When the legionary was fully asleep, Theron opened his mouth wide, revealing his razor sharp fangs. His bite, if he didn’t use it to kill, would actually increase the human’s healing abilities. The vampire’s bite was the first step to creating a new vampire. The magic that kept him alive would seep into the human’s body and make him stronger and faster to heal. It wasn’t permanent. If nothing else happened to sustain the transformation the effects would wear off in about a month. But it would do for now. After all, Theron only needed one day.
He sank his teeth into Taras's neck, puncturing the artery just below the surface of the skin. The taste of blood sent a shiver through his body, and he couldn’t stifle a moan. Theron needed blood. He needed a lot of it, in fact. His ordeal with Jesus had left him weak and drained, and his manipulation of Taras's mind had weakened him further. Only blood could heal and replenish him.
Despite the ache in his chest, Theron drank only a little. He needed Taras alive, and the man would need his blood and his strength for the day to come. Also, Theron’s time ran thin, and he couldn’t stay much longer. Already the zealot “escape” had been thwarted, and the guards were on their way back to their posts. He left Taras sleeping in peace and went out into the halls, where he soon learned the results of his plan.
