by David McAfee
“Thank you Headcouncil,” Ramah said. “How may I assist you?”
“There is blood on your face,” Herris noted. “Are you well?”
Ramah reached up and wiped away the remaining blood, cursing silently that Herris had seen it.
“It’s nothing, Headcouncil,” he said. “A minor injury that I have already healed. I merely forgot to clean up.”
“I see.” Herris studied him. Ramah felt the elder vampire’s beetle eyes boring into him, searching. That Herris knew Ramah lied was beyond doubt, Herris always knew when his subjects lied, but damned if Ramah would allow him to see why.
“Is there something I can do for you, Headcouncil?” Ramah asked as he erected a mental barrier around his mind. Herris broke off his study and smiled. He could probably still rummage through Ramah’s thoughts at will-such was the power of the Headcouncil-but he could no longer do it discreetly.
“You dreamed of her again, didn’t you?” Herris asked.
Ramah’s shoulders fell, and he nodded. No use trying to hide anything from Herris. He should have known better. Herris always knew. “Our last day together,” he said. “The night before I killed my village.”
“The Father’s request,” Herris pointed out.
“And duly obeyed,” Ramah replied. “I do not regret it. But the dreams will not leave me alone.”
“A test?”
“Perhaps, but I see no purpose.” Ramah said. “Never have I faltered in my service to our race.”
“True enough,” Herris agreed. “The Father has his reasons, I’m certain. He does not share them with us.”
“Have you ever dreamed, Headcouncil?”
“Never,” Herris replied. Ramah caught the flicker of doubt across his elder’s face. It was there and gone in an instant, but Ramah noticed. As the primary executioner of the Council’s will, it was his job to notice small things. Interesting. What would Herris dream about? No matter. Herris’ dreams, or lack thereof, were none of his concern.
“You should see Lannis,” Herris said. “She might be able to help you rid yourself of the dreams.”
“With all respect, Headcouncil, is there a reason you have come to my personal chambers rather than wait for the next Council session?” Ramah hoped Herris would take the hint. He didn’t want the dreams to stop. They reminded him of who he was, and fueled his hatred of mankind. For every drop of blood Neeya shed in his dreams, he took a gallon from the world of men. It suited his purpose for them to continue.
“Indeed there is, Ramah,” Herris replied. He leaned closer, and Ramah saw actual excitement in the dead man’s eyes. “I have just this moment come from a meeting with one of our humans in Britannia. We have found the Roman.”
Ramah looked up, trying to figure out why Herris would bother him with such trivial news. Herris looked excited, though, so Ramah dutifully nodded. “Where is he?”
“Londinium.”
“I’ll leave this very hour.” Ramah walked to the far side of his room and reached for the door handle. He didn’t need to pack anything. The Council had recently opened a gatehouse in Londinium, so he wouldn’t even need to travel overland to get there. Once he found Taras it should be an easy kill. He would be back before midnight.
“Wait, Ramah,” Herris said. “You don’t think I came all this way to wake you for that, do you?”
Ramah stopped at the door and turned to face the Headcouncil. “Is there something else?”
“We think Theron might show up in the city, as well,” Herris said.
Ramah smiled. Theron and Taras? In the same city? Could it be? There could only be one reason both renegades would be in such close proximity. “Theron must know Taras is there, also,” he reasoned.
“That is my guess, as well,” Herris replied.
“How did he find him before us?”
“I don’t know,” Herris admitted. “But the important thing is they will both be in Londinium, a relatively small city compared to Jerusalem or Carthage. They should be easy enough to find, especially if Theron remains true to form.”
Ramah nodded. Theron had taken to thwarting Council law at every turn, sometimes even leaving his victims out in the open without bothering to disguise his work. In Athens, he had even been seen in the act of drinking several humans dry. He simply didn’t care about the secrecy of the Bachiyr race anymore. If he arrived in Londinium, there would probably be a body or two found in the streets the next day that no one other than a Bachiyr could explain.
“I will find them both,” Ramah said, “and bring their heads back for the Council.”
Herris shook his head. “Kill the Roman, but Theron’s punishment has already been decided. You are to return him to the Halls so he can be made into a Lost One.”
“Even better,” Ramah said, and turned again to leave. This time Herris did not stop him, and Ramah soon found himself in the stone passages of the Halls of the Bachiyr, walking among the flickering torches and the acrid smell of pitch. Soon he would be in Londinium, and Taras and Theron would both be dead.
Oh, he had agreed to bring Theron back, and in truth, the thought of Theron as a Lost One did have a certain justice to it. But Ramah hated prisoners. They had to be handled, transported, guarded, and the like. Far too much trouble. In any case, Theron was powerful and resourceful. He would be difficult to guard. Far easier to simply remove his head and bring it back to Herris in a bag. Herris might complain, but Ramah was Second of the Council, and thus immune to judgment.
Ramah reached the outer halls and turned toward the Londinium passage. The tips of his fingers itched as his claws begged for release. He would let them out once he found Theron. Taras, too, but it was difficult to get excited about that. The Roman was a young Bachiyr and none too powerful. How he had managed to evade the Council’s minions for thirty years was a mystery.
Ramah intended to find out. Taras would live long enough to talk, then his head, too would part company with his shoulders.
Ramah slipped through the door into the Londinium receiving chamber, startling the clerk, who stammered out a greeting. Ramah ignored him and stepped through the door into the city, all memories of his dream forgotten.
***
Theron brushed the dirt from his sleeves, sending up clouds of dust into the night sky. He was glad to be off the ship. The constant rocking and roiling of the deck as it crossed the span from coastal Spain to Britannia had made it almost impossible to rest. To make matters worse, the crew was small, forcing him to endure his hunger for almost the entire journey. He could have killed every member of the crew, but that would have left him stranded in the middle of the sea, waiting to wither away.
Now free of the cargo hold, and of the crate he’d hidden in for the length of his passage, he felt better. Theron stretched his arms toward the moon, working out the cramps that threatened to set in as he scanned the small port village for any sign of a meal. He spotted the ship’s captain walking ashore. In a village this small there would not be much going on to merit a captain’s attention at this late hour, but it was hunger, and not curiosity, that drove Theron forward. He followed the captain a short way into the city until both men stood behind a single building.
The structure stood between them and the boat, obscuring their view of the docks. And also the dock’s view of the two men.
Excellent, Theron thought.
The captain turned around to face him, apparently not surprised to see Theron standing so close behind. He straightened his shoulders and faced the vampire with an expression that was probably meant to seem unafraid. The captain’s rapid heartbeat gave away his fear, however, and Theron had to force himself not to smile.
“So,” the captain began, “you are here.”
“Indeed,” Theron replied. “Sooner than I expected. Well done, Captain Sethus.”
“Thank the wind for that,” Sethus replied. “I had little enough to do with it.”
Theron nodded.
Sethus cleared his throat. “I believe
you owe me ten gold coins.”
“Our deal was five gold coins.”
“You arrived sooner than expected, did you not?”
Theron smiled. “Didn’t you just say you had little enough to do with getting me here?”
“The speed of our travel was determined by the wind, but not the travel itself. You bought passage on my vessel, and you killed one of my crewmen en route.”
“I-”
“Don’t try to deny it, Ephraim or whatever your name is,” Sethus shook his fist at Theron, “I know it was you. You may have tossed the body overboard, but I saw the blood on your crate. I can replace the crewman, but it will take time, and for that inconvenience you must pay five more gold coins.”
“And if I don’t?” Theron asked.
“The Council of Thirteen would not be pleased to hear of it.”
“Probably not,” Theron agreed. Now he did smile. The captain had doubtless hoped to cow him by mentioning the Council of Thirteen. He was about to be surprised. The tips of Theron’s fangs poked into his lower lip. A tiny drop of blood formed, reminding him he hadn’t fed since halfway through the voyage.
Sethus took a step backward, but caught himself before he took a second. His outward demeanor remained calm and in control, but Theron caught the sweet smell of the man’s fear. “Headcouncil Herris would certainly take offense to the mistreatment of one of the Council’s favored,” Sethus said, probably believing Herris’ name carried some weight. Had it been almost any other vampire, it would have been enough.
But Theron was not any vampire.
He struck before the captain could utter another syllable, closing the distance between them and grabbing the man by the throat. His claws grew, but he was careful to let them get only long enough to hurt, not to kill. Not yet. His fangs extended to their full length, and the captain’s eyes widened in surprise.
Sethus grabbed Theron’s arm and tried to pull himself free from the vampire’s iron grip. Theron would have told him he was wasting his time, but he could see in the captain’s eyes that he already knew.
“My…crew,” Sethus said. “They’ll know…they know we carried you. Headcouncil Herris…will find out.”
Theron laughed. “They know you carried a man named Ephraim who liked to sleep in a crate. When Herris asks, that is what they will tell him.”
Sethus nodded, his eyes clenched shut in pain. “Yes…yes. He will find out.”
“My name is not Ephraim, Captain Sethus. It’s Theron.”
Sethus’ eyes flew open at the mention of the name. So, Theron thought. Even the Council’s pet humans know of me. The fight went out of the old captain then, and that told Theron exactly what he’d wanted to know. The Council of Thirteen was using every available resource to capture him.
“It’s nice to be wanted,” he said. When the captain didn’t respond, Theron looked at him. The man’s eyes had closed, and his face had gone slack. He wasn’t dead, Theron could feel the heart beating under his fingers, just unconscious. Perfect. He could take his time, this didn’t have to be messy, and he’d need these clothes again, so it would be best not to get too much blood on them.
Theron bit into the tough flesh of the man’s neck, tearing into the artery just beneath the surface, and then sealed the area around the wound by pressing his lips to Sethus’ skin. Fresh, warm blood poured into his mouth and down his throat, filling him with the vitality of the living. His head began to buzz slightly, and his arms trembled. Tiny electric motes sizzled up and down his skin, sinking into his spine and setting his nerves aflame. Still he held on, his hunger driving him to siphon every last drop from the dying captain.
When it was over, Theron let the body fall to the dirt. Then, as he’d done for the last twenty seven years, he turned and walked away, leaving the corpse where it fell. This was another way of thumbing his nose at the Council. By Council Law, all victims had to be hidden, camouflaged, or otherwise disposed of in order to keep the secrecy of the Bachiyr race intact. As an outcast, Theron no longer concerned himself with such matters.
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.