by David McAfee
“The taste of blood,” he said, a faint smile on his lips. “What does any Bachiyr remember? That first taste is difficult to forget.”
“Of course,” she said. “But I was referring to the change itself, not the results. What do you remember about your actual transformation? Does any part of the process stand out?”
Theron looked thoughtful. “Chanting,” he said after a moment. “I remember Lannis chanting in the ancient tongue, but I did not hear all of her words, nor did I understand them. I was a bit distracted at the time.”
“As are we all,” Baella noted, nodding. Her mind drifted back, reaching through several millennia of memories, thinking of the time when she, too, had first tasted blood. “The chant you heard is actually a ritual spoken in the ancient language of the Father. It is a very old ritual. It predates the Council itself, and is a holdover from a time when only the original fourteen Bachiyr walked the earth.”
“Fourteen?” Theron interrupted. “Did you say fourteen?”
She winked. “Just making sure you were paying attention,” she said.
“Of course.” His eyes were narrower than normal, if that were possible.
“In any case,” she said, trying to steer the conversation back on track, “the chant was taught to the first thirteen Bachiyr by the Father himself. He gave it to them so that they might multiply and spread His influence across the world.”
“A psalm?”
“More like a prayer,” she replied, “but one that goes directly to the Father’s ears. To this night, only the Council of Thirteen know it, which is why they will not allow any rogue Bachiyr to be created outside their influence.”
“Why? What does it do?”
“It is difficult to explain, but at its core it is a type of Binding psalm, though much more potent. It basically links the new Bachiyr to the Council and their desire to serve the Father, thus ensuring the compliance of their new subjects according to His will. This is how they make certain that our race continues to serve His wishes.”
“So if the psalm is not cast at a Bachiyr’s transformation…”
“He or she would not be bound to the Council, and would have much more freedom to act as they saw fit. As I understand it, Taras was a good man in life, albeit a stern one. He fought for justice, and continues to do so as a Bachiyr because the Father’s will is not a part of him, and never will be.”
Theron snapped his fingers, visibly excited. “That’s why Galle is so timid, then. She was a mousy little woman when I acquired her, and thus she remains so in death.”
“Exactly. This is why the Council has outlawed the practice of independent transformations; they require all new Bachiyr to be subjects to their—and thus, the Father’s—desires by way of the ritual incantation. Otherwise they would lose control of our race.”
“So the Bachiyr…”
“Are basically slaves,” she finished.
“But not all of us,” he said, arching an eyebrow.
“No,” she replied. “Some Bachiyr break free through one means or another. As you know, those that do are hunted down ruthlessly.”
Theron nodded. “How does one break the ritual?” he asked.
“There are several different ways,” she replied. “Sometimes, I can break it for a Bachiyr if I think they really want to be free. Other times, a Bachiyr will figure it out by himself. Sometimes the ritual goes away all on its own. I have no idea why that happens, but it does.”
“If so, it can’t be as strong as you say it is.”
“Think back to Londinium,” she replied. “What was your primary goal there?”
“To kill Taras.”
“But why?”
“Because I wanted him dead,” he said. “Why else?”
“Yes, but why did you want him dead? What was Taras to you?”
“He is the one who ruined my greatest mission,” Theron replied. “I thought if I could kill him or capture him I could…I could...”
“Redeem yourself to the Council?”
Theron nodded. He looked surprised.
“Even then, after decades of being hunted and shunned, you still had obedience to the Council buried deep within your heart,” she said. “The idea of fealty becomes instinctive, ingrained, as natural as breathing…when you were alive, of course. It is that powerful.”
“So how did I break free of it?”
“Believe it or not, you owe that to Taras.”
“Taras?” he asked. “How?” He snapped his fingers. “When I started using my blood differently! Once I figured out there was more than one way to utilize it—”
“It broke the ritual’s effect,” she finished for him.
“I’ll be damned.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“They are a sneaky group, the Council of Thirteen,” Theron said, but the smile on his face belied the words. It was obvious he still admired them, although she had no idea why. He had no need of their approval, so why did he still seek it? A lingering effect of the ritual, probably. It was a difficult thing to break. It was times like this she was glad the Council had never performed it on her. Of course, she was also the reason the ritual was created in the first place, but she didn’t see any need for Theron to know that.
They arrived at the door and Theron pushed it open. Just as he had predicted, the child was alive, sleeping soundly in the center of the room. Baella listened to the girl’s heartbeat. It was weak, but not weak enough to die. Not yet. Give her a few more days in this room and if Galle didn’t kill her, she would die on her own. She wondered if Galle ever thought of the slow, debilitating death she was giving them. It would be far kinder to kill them and get it over with.
“Taras,” Theron boomed, his voice echoing across the room. “Get up.”
“No,” Taras replied, his voice harsh and scratchy. “Whatever you are planning, I will not be part of it.”
“I was hoping you would say that,” Theron said. He pulled a vial of blood from his tunic and held it up for Taras to see. “You would give me another chance to use this?”
“Do your worst,” Taras said. “You can burn me all you like. Eventually I will die, and you will be no closer to your goal. I can go to the Abyss happy knowing that much, at least.”
Theron chuckled. “Who said I was going to use this on you?”
With that, Theron brought the vial to his lips and whispered the command. “Esh.”
Galle began to scream. She rolled along the floor, clawing at her skin and crying in pain.
“No!” Taras shouted. “Stop!” He sprang to his feet and rushed at Theron, but he was hurt and weak, while Theron was whole and strong. Taras crashed into Theron’s outstretched hand and fell to the floor in a heap.
“Haven’t you done enough to her?” Taras asked, his voice shaky. “She told me how you’ve been keeping her here, forcing her to be your pet. Making her feed on children…children!”
Taras got to his feet again and made as if to attack, but his legs would not support him and he slid to his knees. “Have you not done enough?” Taras asked in a whisper.
In the center of the room, the little girl awoke. The child sat up, covering her ears against the sound of Galle’s screaming, then looked around at the room. Once her eyes found Theron, she took a deep breath and added her screams to Galle’s.
“Galle is nothing to me,” Theron said. “Now that I have you, Roman, I no longer need her. This will go on until you come willingly or until she dies. Your choice.”
Taras looked from Galle to the little girl, then back. His face was tight with anger and pain. After a moment, he looked up at Theron and did what Baella had known he would do the moment Galle started screaming. He held his hands up in surrender.
“Stop hurting her, Theron,” Taras said. “I will come with you.”
“Mayim,” Theron said, blowing the word across the top of the vial. Galle’s screams ceased immediately, but the little girl continued to wail. She had backed herself into a corner and stared a
t them with wide, terrified eyes. Baella couldn’t blame her. The four Bachiyr would doubtless be quite a sight to a small human child.
“I knew you would,” Theron said smugly. “Let’s go, Roman.”
Taras rose to his feet. It took him a moment, and for a while it seemed that his legs would prove unable to hold up their end of the bargain, but eventually he sorted himself out and stood before Theron and Baella with a grim, determined expression. Despite his ragged, weak appearance, Taras was far from finished. His will was strong, indeed. Baella made a mental note to keep an eye on him. Theron probably could not sense the latent power boiling just beneath the surface of the tall Roman, but she could. It was reflected in the steel of his eyes and the rigidity with which he held his frame, even in surrender.
“Mark my words, Theron,” Taras said, “before this is over, I will kill you. And I will enjoy every moment it.”
“You had your chance in Londinium,” Theron replied. “You should have taken it. Now let’s go, unless you’d like to see what the psalm will do the child.”
A bluff, of course. Theron had already told her that the burning psalm had no effect on humans, but Taras didn’t know that.
Taras’s shoulders slumped. Without a word, he stepped through the door and began to shuffle down the passage. His frame was bent, and his eyes scanned the floor in front of him. He looked as defeated as she had ever seen him. The threat against the child seemed to have broken his will to fight back, just as Theron must have known it would.
Even without the binding psalm, Taras could be easy to control. Or so it appeared.
Theron winked at her and fell into step behind Taras, motioning for her to follow suit.
Baella had to admit, Theron was every bit as ruthless and clever as anyone on the Council. If only he didn’t possess the latent desire to please them. He thought he was free of the Council’s influence, and she had allowed him to believe it because it suited her purpose, but she knew better. Theron would forever belong to Herris and his ilk. Such a shame. He would have fit in well at her castle.
Taras, on the other hand, intrigued her. With no ties to the Council of Thirteen or the Father, he would be hers to mold. Eventually she would have to break his morality, but that could wait until he was fully hers. She had plenty of time. The only question was whether or not it would be worth the trouble to train him. She needed time to think about it.
The floor beneath her feet trembled. A timely reminder that she did not have much longer to consider her options.
She left the room and started walking behind the two, never taking her eyes off the tall blond Roman.
***
Galle watched them go from a prone position on the stone floor, while the child screamed somewhere behind her. She couldn’t blame the girl for screaming, the gods knew she wanted to scream, as well. If nothing else, she would have like to call out a warning for Taras about what was to come, but she lacked the strength to squeeze the words from her parched and angry throat. Taras would have to discover the pain of Theron’s experiments for himself, it would seem, as had she. She wondered if he would live through the night. Theron had come close to killing her numerous times, but had never allowed her to die. Would it be that way with the Roman, as well? Would Theron keep him around indefinitely, feeding him just enough to keep him alive, but not enough to make him strong? If so, she felt sorry for him. Having endured such an existence herself for over a year, she would not wish it on anyone.
And if Theron does keep him, she thought, what will he do with me? He won’t need me anymore. Maybe he will finally let me die. She doubted it. Theron liked playing with her far too much to let her go. More likely he would simply keep them both hungry and weak for as long as it pleased him to do so.
Behind her, the girl’s screams turned to frightened whimpers. Now that the newcomers were gone, it was just the two of them again. Maybe she felt safer with Galle. She’d been here for a while and so far Galle had done nothing to harm her. But trusting her would be the child’s worst mistake. Sooner or later, Galle would kill her. She would have to. Theron knew this, and so did Galle. Baella likely knew it, as well. Taras too, for that matter. All of them were Bachiyr. Killers. Drinkers of blood and eaters of life. The only one who didn’t realize it was the girl.
Galle hoped the girl would be asleep when the time came.
She lay there with her head on the stone, dreading the moments to come, when it occurred to her that the cold, hard floor was not quite so cold anymore. Maybe it was because of Theron’s ‘Esh’ psalm, or whatever the bastard called it. Whenever he used it on her, she felt her entire insides burning. That could explain why the floor felt warm.
Couldn’t it?
Like the others, she had felt the tremors in Vesuvius. She knew what they portended, but unlike everyone else, she had a feeling this eruption would be much larger than typical. Vesuvius erupted on and off every few years, but it was never more than a few small explosions, some smoke, and perhaps a small flowing of molten rock. But this time felt different. It felt stronger, somehow, almost as of the mountain itself was angry with them for intruding upon it.
But that was silly. The mountain couldn’t be angry, although she supposed the gods could be, and they controlled the mountain. At least Pompeii was far enough away that it should be safe, but she could not say the same for herself. Should the volcano erupt, she was not sure any of those currently inside it would make it out alive. That included the girl, provided she lived long enough to see the eruption.
Galle turned toward her. She had stopped screaming when the others left the room, but she still sat with her back to the wall, staring at Galle with wide, terrified eyes. Galle couldn’t help but notice how small and frail she looked. She also noticed the girl’s rapid heartbeat, which brought an image of the girl’s rushing, pulsing blood into her mind. Try as she might to resist her urges, her resolve was weakening.
Theron had left her injured and weak, and she was hungry even before he’d come and taken the Roman. Now the hunger called to her, twisting in her gut and wringing out a little more of her humanity. As she stared at the frightened child, all she could think about was blood. The girl’s blood. The girl was going to die, anyway. In this cell, her death would be slow and painful as she withered away to nothing. The girl would die weak and starving. Or she might die by being crushed to death in the coming eruption. Neither of those sounded pleasant. Wouldn’t it be kinder to end her suffering quickly?
Or was Galle merely rationalizing the fact that she desperately wanted to sink her teeth into the child’s soft, vulnerable throat?
I should ask her what her name is, Galle thought. Try and put her at ease. The poor thing is scared out of her wits, and with good reason.
But she didn’t ask. She couldn’t even bring herself to speak to the child. And deep down, she knew why.
You don’t name your food. Doing so makes it harder to kill.
The girl’s head slumped forward, and she brought her knees up. She sat with her back against the wall and her face in her knees, sobbing and asking for her mother. Galle’s heart broke. This poor girl would never see her mother again.
Maybe it would be kinder just to end it for her, here and now
No! she thought. No, I am not there. Not yet.
Her belly twisted, wrenching a strangled cry from her throat. She would have to do something soon or…or…or what, exactly? Would she die herself? Could she die? There was so much that she did not know about her condition, and the only person she could ask was Theron. He had not exactly been forthcoming about anything other than his plans to use her for his experiments and his continuous rants against the Council.
Another pang clenched her gut, and Galle cried out. They were getting worse. And she was too weak to fight them. She looked over at the girl again, who was watching her now.
The sound of the girl’s blood as it rushed through her veins called to Galle like music. The Siren’s song, bringing with it the irresistible urge t
o follow the dark path of survival.
Galle felt her teeth come in. The child must have noticed them, as well, because she started screaming again and backed deeper into the gloom of the chamber. The smell of fear mixed with the smells of sweat and the underlying scent of blood, and Galle found herself becoming excited. She began to make her way slowly toward the child.
After all, the girl was going to die anyway…
***
Twenty-two men of Pompeii’s city guard walked double-time through the thick, warm forest outside the city, making their way to the base of Vesuvius. They were hot, sweaty, and tired, but Gareth would not allow them to slow their pace. Caelina had left the city that morning, which meant she could already be on the mountain. He and his men had no time to lose.
Weilus, puffing behind him, had requested a break twenty minutes ago. Gareth had refused, though he could have used a brief respite himself. The men would get a brief rest soon enough. Gareth had no illusions about the men keeping up this pace for the entire trip, but he meant to work them as hard as he could before he gave it to him. Caelina’s life might be in danger, if in fact she still lived at all.
He pushed that thought from his mind. She had to be alive. She had to. He pressed forward, finally understanding the drive that kept her going out in search of their lost son night after night. He could not lose her. He would not. He’d lost his son already, the gods be damned if they thought they were going to take his wife.
“Sir,” Weilus said, coming up beside him.
“Not yet,” he growled.
“But we’ve lost two men,” Weilus said, his voice a harsh whisper.
Gareth stopped and turned, his face hot with exertion and anger. The line of men behind him stopped, as well. Several of the men sagged their places. Gareth noted their faces, and the sweat dripping from their brows, and grudgingly admitted they were at the brink. A rest was overdue. It would do him no good to have an armed escort if his men too exhausted to fight.
“Ten minutes,” he shouted.
