by David McAfee
Occasionally, he would change his methods for a while and hide the bodies, as such corpses tend to leave a trail. The Council’s minions had been chasing him for nearly three decades, and sometimes they’d gotten too close, forcing Theron to fight or flee. In most cases, he fought, and won.
He’d killed more Enforcers in the last twenty-seven years than he could remember, and yet the Council continued to send more. Of course, Ramah still hunted for him as well, and had nearly caught up to him in Spain. Theron held no illusions as to who would prove the victor in a fight between himself and Ramah.
Ramah would tear him to shreds, and then only if he was feeling merciful. More likely the elder vampire would incapacitate him and bring him back to the Halls of the Bachiyr, where the Council of Thirteen would turn him into a Lost One.
Theron felt an involuntary shudder as he pictured the Lost Ones. Vampires cursed to serve the Council without the ability to feed. Their bodies rotted away as maggots and other larvae ate their flesh away. But they could never eat it all. The curse of the Lost One is that there would always be enough flesh for the body to function, no matter how much of it the insects devoured.
Theron would sit on the beach and watch the sun rise before he would allow that to happen to him. The council would probably be fine with that outcome, as well, which was just another reason for him to continue living. As long as he remained active, he would be a thorn in Headcouncil Herris’ side.
Besides, he was enjoying himself far too much to die now.
He turned from the building and walked into the street, the light of the nearly full moon on his shoulders. So this is Britannia. There were not many of the so-called Christians here. The Romans owned the land, despite the efforts of a tribe of rebels. Iceni, he thought they were called. Led by their furious and righteous queen. Boudica? That sounded right.
But none of that concerned him. His only purpose for being here lay with Gregor’s story of the tall northerner who spoke Roman and possessed a pair of sharp fangs. Apparently, the northerner had come across Gregor in the tavern district and nearly attacked him, but backed away and let him leave.
Why?
Taras needed blood as much as any other Bachiyr. What reason would he have had for letting Gregor escape? Theron supposed it could be another Bachiyr, but Taras fit the description, and Londinium was isolated enough to be out of the way while still being large enough to offer plenty of prey. It made sense. Taras would look for a good place to hide, and the city of Londinium was as good as any.
But why had he let Gregor escape? Taras should have killed the man.
No matter. Theron was here, and he would learn what he needed to know.
I hope it’s you, Taras, he thought as he put the port town at his back and started walking inland. It’s long past time for you to die.
4
Near the center of the city, Taras walked the dark streets in silence, scanning the dusty shadows of every alley and alcove he passed in his search for prey. On this night the moon was almost new, leaving very little light for him to see his way. While this didn’t bother Taras, who could see perfectly well in the dim evening, it presented a challenge to the humans in the city. Any who were out and about at this late hour had to carry a torch or a lamp, which made them easier to spot.
Even before he became a vampire, Taras was more comfortable stalking through the shadows than out in the open daylight. An assassin by training, he naturally did most of his work after the sun’s departure from the evening sky. But ever since his change the sun held only pain for him, and he’d been banished to the night.
Still, it suited him.
The streets seemed less crowded tonight than normal. Ordinarily Londinium remained busy and active until sometime around midnight, but tonight the cobbled streets seemed virtually empty but for the occasional drunkard or prostitute. He hadn’t even seen a single Roman legionary, and their patrols normally ran through the city every quarter hour. It was almost as if half the city had left during the day. But why?
Up ahead, Taras spied a man in coarse homespun staggering out from a tavern amidst a volley of curses and swears. At least the taverns are still open, he thought. The warm lights of the building reached into the street a short way, then faded into the darkness. The drunk called out an insult to some people still inside, then stumbled up the street mumbling under his breath while drinking from a sour-smelling clay pot. He looked harmless enough, but Taras followed him anyway just to be sure. If the drunk started any trouble, then Taras would have his meal. If not, he would keep looking.
The man wasn’t from one of the local tribes. He stood just over five and a half feet and had the dark hair and soft brown complexion of a Roman. By his accent, Taras guessed him to be from the capital city of Rome herself. You are a long way from home, he thought.
The man walked through the neglected sections of the city, taking pulls from his pot at various intervals. He led Taras through the Market district and into the city proper, where the buildings became a bit less solid and a bit more in need of maintenance. The wooden slats that made up the outer walls were either peeling or bare of paint altogether. Here and there, the ravages of sun or cold pulled at the roofs of the buildings. Though they were relatively new, they had not been taken proper care of. Likely because no one cared enough to do so.
There were very few people here, either, and of those few who walked the streets, most shied away from the drunk as he passed. Either they knew him and wanted to avoid him, or they simply feared anyone new. He passed a ramshackle tavern and hesitated at the entrance. It seemed he might go inside, but after a moment the man took another pull off his pot and kept walking, grumbling about the high cost of mead.
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 i
n 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.
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 hu
nger. 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.
