by David McAfee
Ephraim stood, his face brightening with renewed hope. “Thank you, Malachi. I can never repay you.”
Theron had heard enough. “I can,” he said as he dropped from the rafters. He positioned himself between the entrance and the room’s two surprised occupants. In one fluid motion, he kicked the door shut behind him and pulled his sword from his sheath. Not a khopesh like Ephraim’s, Theron’s sword was of a more modern, almost Roman design. The straight, thick blade, relatively short for a sword, was designed more for piercing than cutting, though it was certainly capable of both. He hadn’t planned on using it when he left the Halls earlier, but Malachi’s strength and size presented a very real threat. Since he would need to face Ephraim, as well, speed was a primary concern. That meant using the blade. Theron hadn’t become Lead Enforcer by taking chances. The human would die first, then he would deal with the traitor.
Malachi reached for the hammer at his belt, but although large and strong, he was not fast. By the time he got his fingers around the handle, Theron had already spun a circle in front of him, blade first, and cut open his throat in a precise line from one side of his jaw to the other. Malachi sputtered and tried to speak, but his severed vocal cords failed him. The fingers on his right hand started to twitch, and the hammer fell from them and hit the floor with a dull thump. He brought his left hand up to his neck in a futile attempt to stem the flow of his life’s blood, then he followed his weapon to the floor. The big human didn’t seem angry or bewildered, as Theron might have expected, but content. His face softened into a peaceful expression the Enforcer found somewhat odd. Before he could puzzle it out, however, he would have to deal with Ephraim.
Theron whirled to face him, fully expecting to be bowled over in a mass of teeth and claws. But Ephraim stood in the same spot as before. He hadn’t moved at all during Malachi’s death, and had not plucked his infamous khopesh from the wall. Theron thought he knew the reason. He knows it won’t help. He already knows how this must end. He stepped closer. Malachi’s blood dripped from his blade, leaving a thin trail of small red puddles on the floorboards.
“Theron,” Ephraim said. “They sent you?”
“I’m the best. Of course they sent me.” Theron gave a mocking bow.
“Are you the Lead Enforcer now, my old friend?”
“Someone had to take your place. Who better than me? But you are no friend of mine, traitor.” He spat at the other’s feet, barely missing Ephraim’s dusty leather boot.
“Don’t be so quick to choose, Theron. You should hear what he has to say.”
“I don’t need to hear what he has to say. I still serve our people. The rambling words of a deranged rabbi will not show me my path. The Council's laws have protected our people for over four thousand years. You,” he pointed an accusing finger, “have violated them.”
“His words would save you, my friend,” Ephraim said, so softly Theron almost didn’t hear him.
Theron laughed. “Save me? As they saved you? You are a handful of seconds away from Hell, and you would presume to save me?” In that instant, Theron determined he would make Ephraim’s death as unpleasant as he could manage. He threw his sword to the floor and willed his claws to grow. In a few moments his fingernails grew long and thick. The brief but intense pain in his fingertips was worth it. He would rip the traitor’s head from his shoulders. “You should worry about saving yourself, old friend.”
“I did,” Ephraim replied, just before Theron leapt at him.
It was over quickly; Ephraim didn’t fight back. When Theron grabbed Ephraim’s head between his clawed hands, the traitor only stared at him with a sad, wistful expression on his face. He didn’t speak, not even to beg for his life, which was a bit disappointing. Ephraim didn’t flinch at Theron’s touch, and he didn’t scream, not even when Theron drove his clawed fingers through the flesh of his throat and began to twist, rending tendons, tearing muscle, and sending a spray of blood all over the wall. Once the head rolled off onto the floor, it was over. Theron felt let down. It was too easy.
A quick search of Ephraim’s body turned up a rolled piece of parchment. Theron noted the red wax seal, which matched the E on Ephraim’s ring, and snapped it in two. He unrolled the letter and read every word, but it didn’t tell him anything he hadn’t already surmised. It was only a letter to Malachi. Apparently Ephraim had wanted the butcher to be prepared in the event of his death, but in the end it proved too little, too late. Now both lay dead, and Theron had his answers. He dropped the paper onto Ephraim’s headless torso and went to the back of the house to find a shovel. He would need to bury the bodies so they would not be found, at least not before he completed his business in Jerusalem.
* * *
It took a long time to bury Ephraim and Malachi. The hole had to be deep enough to keep any stray dogs from smelling the bodies and digging them up. Due to Malachi's tremendous girth, it also had to be wide and tall. Theron spent the better part of four hours digging the hole, rolling the bodies into it, and covering them up. He also tossed in Ephraim’s last letter to Malachi. He wouldn’t need it to convince the Council; he had proof enough already.
Afterward, he carefully replaced the layer of grass and sod to better hide the corpses, though the telltale bulge of the earth would be a dead giveaway if anyone came looking. By the time Theron finished the arduous task, dawn loomed a mere two hours away. That didn’t leave much time to make his way through the city, but he thought he could manage it.
He walked away from the house, carrying his macabre prize in Ephraim’s burlap sack, which he carried slung over his shoulder. Ephraim’s head, which bounced and jostled along inside the bag, wore neither fear nor malice on its lifeless features, instead the dead vampire's expression seemed... peaceful. Theron didn’t care. The job was done; the Council would be pleased. What’s more, he had the information they sought, for Theron now knew the identity of the person to whom Ephraim had betrayed his people. It could only be one man, the same man who’d acquired followers from all across Israel over the last few years. The very man Malachi swore his life to protect only a month ago.
Jesus, they called him. Jesus of Nazareth.
Chapter Two
Theron walked the dusty streets of Jerusalem with his sack slung over his shoulder. His sandals whispered against the cobbles, making no more noise than air passing over an owl’s wing. The wood and stone buildings on either side of the street faded to the same dirty gray in the dim light of pre-dawn. At this hour, they all looked the same.
He had to be careful to steer clear of any legionaries. Theron didn’t fear them, but if any soldiers found him walking the streets they might mistake him for a thief and question him, perhaps even demand to look into his bag. He couldn’t allow that to happen, of course, because then he would have to kill them. Although it would be easy enough to do, he ran the risk they might raise an alarm before he could finish. A contingent of Roman soldiers scouring the city would hamper his movement, and thus his ability to report back to the Council. Better not to be noticed at all.
Theron kept his eyes and ears trained on his surroundings. He could not afford any surprises this close to his goal. He slipped from shadow to shadow, as one with the night blanketing the city, and managed to keep out of sight of any legionaries. The few patrols he saw were too far away to notice him, and the clip of their sandaled feet on the cobblestones revealed their presence long before they came into view.
He’d been traversing the Upper City, where Ephraim kept his home, but his way to the Council lay through the New City, which required him to pass through the Middle Gate. He threaded his way softly through the darkened streets, passing the massive Palace of Solomon and the Temple, neither of which impressed him in the least. As he approached the gate he heard voices, and swore under his breath. He stopped at the edge of a potter’s shop and peered around the corner. Sure enough, two red cloaked legionaries stood watch at the gate, their steel breastplates glinting dully in the moonlight. Theron couldn’t tell if they were poste
d there or if they just happened to stop for a break. Either way, their presence was damned inconvenient. The threat of dawn lingered less than an hour away, which meant he didn’t have much time to wait for them to move on.
As the two legionaries settled into a comfortable conversation, one of them produced a set of dice, much to the delight of the other. They soon hunkered down in front of the gate and lost themselves in a game. Several times Theron heard one of the men whisper a harsh curse when the roll didn’t go in his favor.
He huddled back into the shadows to consider his options. He could circle back and try another route, but he didn’t know the city very well and worried he might get lost. If that happened he would be forced to take shelter from the day in a stranger’s house. Since killing the stranger in his bed might rouse the neighbors, it was not an ideal prospect. The thought of lying helpless in bed while a group of armed Roman soldiers surrounded him didn’t appeal to Theron. As such, he would wait a while and see if the two patrolmen moved along on their own.
Twenty minutes later, the first light of day threatened to break over the horizon, and the soldiers still hadn’t moved. Theron could wait no longer. He checked his attire to make sure everything looked fine, even retrieving fresh dirt from the street and smudging it into his face. The peasant who had “donated” his clothes earlier in the evening hadn’t gotten any blood on them, so he felt optimistic his disguise would hold. If the guards questioned him, he would tell them he was on his way to one of the wheat fields outside the city to begin the workday. If they believed him and let him go, good. If not he would have to kill them fast and run like the devil. His path set and his list of options short, he strode from the shadows and walked toward the legionaries, trying to look as though he belonged there.
He was only ten feet away when one of the men looked up from the dice and spotted him. The soldier nudged his fellow on the arm and they both stood to face the newcomer.
“Hold,” one of them commanded, and Theron, remembering he was supposed to be a peasant, stopped in his tracks.
“Yes?” He asked.
The soldier looked him up and down, taking in his clothes, his face, and the bag he carried over his shoulder. “A bit early to be going to the fields, isn’t it, friend?”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but it’s never too early to start an honest day’s work, is it?”
“Indeed,” the soldier fixed him with a doubtful gaze. “Which of the landowners do you tend for?”
“Jared,” Theron pulled the name from memory. Jared owned several fields just outside the city, and was well known in Jerusalem for his high quality wheat and barley. “For ten years now. You can ask him, if you like.”
“Don’t be flippant. There’s been a great deal of zealot activity of late, and the centurion has ordered us to keep the streets safe for the law-abiding citizens of Jerusalem.”
“No offense meant,” Theron bowed his head in respect. “It’s just that I’ll be leaving the field early today on account of a personal matter, and I thought to go in early so as to not miss my wages.”
The soldier gave him a second look, taking in his posture and his stance, both of which Theron had worked hard to cultivate in order to portray himself as nothing more than he appeared; a poor farm hand, beaten down by the life of a peasant and tired with age. After a cursory examination, the legionary waved him through the gate.
“Thank you,” Theron said, and proceeded to walk through. Just as he exited, he felt a strong hand grip his shoulder.
“Do all Jared’s hands wear a sword to work?”
Damn! Theron looked at his waist, where the hilt of his sword poked from a flap of coarse brown cloth. He’d done his best to hide it in the folds of his clothing, but the peasant garb was not well suited to such a deception, consisting as it did of a simple coarse shirt and a pair of baggy trousers, and he’d been forced to make do. The large ruby and trio of emeralds mounted in the hilt didn’t help. His mind raced frantically for a suitable lie. All was not lost; he might still be able to—
“Claudius, look at his bag. It’s spotted with blood,” the other soldier said.
Claudius and Theron both looked at the bag. It was true. Theron had spent too much time waiting for the soldiers to disperse, and Ephraim’s blood – which, like that of all Bachiyr, didn’t coagulate – soaked through in places. He scrambled to think of a suitable excuse. A sheep, maybe, or something for Passover.
But with his very next breath, Claudius ended any chance of avoiding a fight. “Open the bag.”
Theron’s shoulders slumped. So much for discretion. “No,” he said. “I don’t think I will.”
Claudius's eyes narrowed to slits. “I knew it. He’s a zealot. Take him!” Both soldiers drew their swords and the masquerade was over. Fools, Theron thought. If only they’d let him pass unmolested through the Middle Gate. Now he had to kill them, and fast.
He didn’t have time to reach for his sword, so he swung the bag containing Ephraim’s head with all his strength. As Claudius swung for Theron’s shoulder, the bag slammed into the legionary’s face. Theron smiled at the satisfying crunch of bone as the soldier’s nose shattered.
Claudius fell backward into the street, but he was only stunned. Soon enough he would scream for reinforcements. That meant Theron had only a few seconds to kill the other soldier and then turn his attention back to Claudius. He spun to face his other opponent just in time to avoid a roundhouse swing that would have severed his head had it connected. He ducked under the blade, but not before it opened a gash on his shoulder. Theron kicked out with his left foot, connecting solidly on the soldier’s torso and sending him crashing into the dusty stone wall behind him.
Theron took a second to examine his wound, noting the lazy flow of blood. He scowled and returned his attention to the legionary. This time, he didn’t feel the sting as the nails on his hands grew longer and thicker. In half a heartbeat they were three inches long and strong as bone. He threw the bag to the side and leapt at the horrified legionary, who pressed his back into the wall and watched, eyes wide as dates, as death found him.
“What are you?” the Roman asked.
In answer, Theron struck the unfortunate soldier in the throat with both hands, letting his fingers sink all the way through until the newly lengthened nails poked out the other side. He then turned his palms outward, curling his fingers before spreading his arms wide. The sound of rending flesh and the spray of blood in the air invigorated him as he tore the head from the legionary’s body. Theron’s eyes followed it as it flew through the air to land a few inches from Claudius's left foot.
Theron turned to face Claudius, a smile on his lips. He raised his right hand to his face and ran his tongue along the length of his bloody index finger. The dead soldier’s blood covered his face and his clothes. The smell of it filled the air and assaulted his senses. He felt the familiar hunger building inside him, burning his discipline away with the promise of more. Theron forced himself to remain in control, promising his primal side he would feed when he returned to the Halls.
Behind him, he heard the sound of the body as it hit the ground. He feared he’d waited too long; that Claudius would scream the alarm to every Roman Soldier in the city, and Theron would be forced to run into someone’s house for the day.
But the injured legionary said nothing, perhaps could say nothing. Claudius's eyes never left Theron’s claws as he approached. The man tried to speak, but no sound came from his lips. Theron’s nose wrinkled as he caught the acrid odor of urine, and noted the puddle spreading beneath the fallen legionary. He would have to make this quick. Theron started to use his claws again, but thought better of it. It would be best for the Romans to blame this on the zealots. He willed the nails back into his hands and instead pulled out his sword.
The sound of metal sliding against leather and the sight of the claws disappearing seemed to wake Claudius from his stupor. The legionary drew in a breath, perhaps to scream, but Theron was too fast.
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br /> He drove the point of his sword through the soldier’s breastplate, piercing the man’s heart and silencing him. As Claudius looked down at his ruined chest, he brought one hand up and clutched the sword in a feeble attempt to pull it out. Theron twisted the sword in his hand and watched as Claudius grimaced. The sharp crack of the man’s sternum and his sudden intake of breath were the only sounds to be heard.
The dying legionary looked up at Theron from the dirt, his eyes squeezed nearly shut and his lips peeled back from his teeth. The ruin of his nose painted the lower half of his face the same color as his bloodied chest. A single tear formed in his right eye and rolled down his cheek as he shuddered his way through his final breaths.
“You should have just let me through,” Theron said.
Claudius slumped over, and Theron pulled out his sword. The whole encounter had taken less than two minutes, and neither of the men made a sound louder than a whisper. He wiped the blade on the dead man’s uniform before putting it away, not having time to give it a more thorough cleaning. The sight and smell of so much blood made Theron’s hunger bubble to the surface, but he could not indulge it. If he fed now, it would leave an empty body in the streets of Jerusalem for the next patrol to find. That, in turn, would raise questions; questions his superiors would not like raised. He turned his back on the men, shaking his head. He would just have to wait.
He picked up his bag and noted a great deal more blood on it than before. Theron recalled the sound Claudius's nose made when it cracked and his smile returned. He was glad he’d come this way and run into the two soldiers, after all.
On this mission alone he killed a traitor and three humans, four if you count the peasant from whom he’d taken the clothes. It’s been a good night, he thought as he set out once again for the New City.
Chapter Three
At that same moment, half a city away in an alley between a tailor’s shop and a butcher’s, another meeting was taking place. While significantly less violent than either of Theron’s encounters, it was just as secret. A tall Roman legionary with an uncommon mane of shoulder-length blond hair and the raven haired daughter of a middle class Jewish merchant met in the inky darkness between the two buildings. They embraced, and shared the stolen pleasure of a kiss which would be denied them any other time of day.
