33 A.D.

by David McAfee

  “Mary?” He called. There was no answer. He dared not raise his voice lest he wake others in the city or alert any nearby soldiers to his presence. Officially, he was not yet released from service, and Pilate, fearing zealot retribution for Jesus's death, had placed all the legionaries in Jerusalem on extra alert. Thus he should be out patrolling with his fellow soldiers. If they saw him outside, he could be charged with desertion. But there was no other way; he and Mary had to leave tonight, before her father returned in the morning. He had enough gold to buy his way past the guards at Damascus Gate, if need be, and his papers would be official tomorrow. With the only guarded border from Judea more than a week’s journey away, he would not have any trouble leaving the provinces.

  But first he had to find Mary.

  “Mary? Are you here?”

  He walked through the market, looking for some sign of her, but there was none. Perhaps she’d changed her mind. Maybe the thought of leaving her home and family had proven too much for her. She could even now be in her bedchamber, trying to forget their foolish plan and waiting for her father to come home.

  No, he’d seen the look in her eyes when he asked her to marry him. She wanted to come to Rome. Something must have happened. Taras started in the direction of her house. If Abraham had indeed come home early and locked her away, Taras would have something to say about it. Trouble between the two of them had been brewing for months, if it boiled over tonight, so be it.

  Taras walked along the market streets headed for Mary’s house, thinking of the possible confrontation with her father. He was not paying attention to where he placed his feet, and before he left the market district he tripped over an object lying in the street and fell. Cursing, he picked himself from the cobbles and looked to see what he’d tripped over.

  A woman’s shoe.

  He reached over and picked it up, feeling the first cold stabs of dread. It was a soft brown sandal, lambskin, sewn together with gold thread. Clearly made for the delicate feet of a lady of means. A lady with enough money that she didn’t have to wear shoes more suited to labor. He turned it over and saw a tiny drop of blood on it.

  “No,” he whispered. “No, it can’t be.”

  He shot to his feet. “Mary? Are you here?”

  Please, Jupiter don’t let it be hers, he thought as he looked at the shoe in his hand. He looked up and down the street, searching for any sign of her. A short distance away, a small flutter of movement caught his attention. There, at the entrance to an alley, a small strip of blue cloth flapped in the breeze. He ran to it and picked it up. Silk. Expensive.

  Then he smelled it; the overpowering, copper scent of blood. It came from deeper in the alley.

  Taras dropped the cloth and pulled his sword. He stepped into the alley, looking left and right. There were no torches here, and the light from those in the street only penetrated a few short paces. He paused, waiting for his eyes to adjust. About halfway down the length of the alley, he spied a bundle of blue clothing lying on the ground. He walked up to it, and the smell of blood grew stronger with every step.

  When he got within a few paces he stopped. His sword fell from nerveless fingers and dropped to the earth with a clang. Taras didn’t hear it past the blood rushing into his ears. He scrambled forward on his hands and knees, not believing his eyes. But he could not deny the long, dark hair or the soft olive skin. Skin that was still warm, but cooling.

  He screamed, no longer caring if he alerted any legionaries to his presence.

  He’d found Mary.

  * * *

  In the Halls of the Bachiyr, a shadowy figure walked along the dimly lit stone passageways to the Larder. He knew there would be humans there, restrained and waiting for a hungry vampire to come along. This suited him, of course, because he just happened to be a hungry vampire. But then, he was always hungry.

  Along the way he met a Lost One in the tunnels. The filthy creature dropped to its knees until he passed, its tattered robe bunched on the floor around its bony knees, along with several maggots that lost their footing and fell to the stone with a sickening plop. He paid it no attention as he walked by, the abject fawning of a Lost One was nothing to him; he’d grown accustomed to such treatment long ago. After he passed by the thing, it shot to its feet and scurried off in the direction of the Council Chamber, doubtless to let Herris know of his arrival. It didn’t even bother to pick up the maggots.

  After a short time he reached the door to the Larder and pushed it open. Four humans, a man and three women, stood naked in the flickering torchlight of the chamber. All four were bound hand and foot to the wall by thick chains. The cuffs had chafed the wrists of two of the women, and the angry red flesh underneath the metal testified to their desperation to flee. Doubtless they’d almost yanked their hands off trying to tug free of their bonds. Blood trickled from the wounds, but not quite enough to overpower the smell of urine, vomit, and feces that assailed him. He would have to speak to Herris about the condition of the place. Someone should at least wash the filth from the humans; maybe Herris could assign a Lost One to the task.

  Filthy or not, food was food, and he stepped into the chamber. The humans stared at him with eyes wide as saucers. The man and two of the women started screaming as soon as he walked into the room. The third woman hung her head, either too tired or too dazed to struggle. She would be the easiest, though none would present a problem, chained as they were to the wall. He walked toward her.

  Her heart picked up speed as he got close. He could hear it thumping in her chest like a hammer. She knew what was coming, then, but still didn’t move. Perhaps she’d just given up, and was now ready to die.

  That was no fun.

  He turned away from the subdued woman and grabbed the man, who screamed even louder at his touch. The Bachiyr sank his teeth into the man’s throat, gashing the huge artery just under the skin. He shook his head back and forth, enlarging the hole and spraying blood all over his face, the wall, and the three women. He drank long and deep, swallowing plenty but making sure a good amount ended up on the wall behind him. He wanted it to be messy.

  When he was finished he turned to one of the women. He smiled, tasting the blood on his lips. She screamed again, long and loud, and he leapt at her. He sank his fangs into her throat in much the same manner as he had the man’s, shaking his head back and forth and ripping the hole in her neck wider with each move.

  By the Father, they tasted good! Forget the smell of human waste that permeated the very walls of this chamber, these prisoners were fresh. They’d probably just come in from the outside. Herris must have been expecting him.

  He drained the woman and moved on to another, biting her throat and shaking his head in the same manner, leaving the woman who hadn’t screamed as the last human alive in the room. By the time his third victim was dead, blood from three humans covered the wall, dripping down the chains and filling the room with its heady, metallic aroma. His face was covered in the stuff, and when he looked up from his latest victim, he noted the last human wore almost as much blood as he did. It splattered the wall behind her and matted her hair, pasting it to her head. It covered her face in a crimson mask and ran down her chest in rivulets, dripping to the floor below and landing on her feet, which scrabbled for purchase on the now slick floor.

  This time she did scream at his approach, and wracking sobs coursed the length of her body as she alternated between screaming and begging for her life. He stepped up to her and stopped, his face inches from hers. She closed her eyes and grit her teeth, and he smelled fresh urine as her bladder let go. He reached up and touched his fingers to his cheek. They came away stained with the blood of his three victims. He pressed his bloody fingers to her forehead and dug his nail into her flesh. She screamed anew as he drew her blood. Using his fingernail like a blade, he carved a letter in his ancient language. The letter was meaningless, but the woman screamed even louder.

  He leaned in, wanting to make sure she smelled the blood on his breath.r />
  “Not yet,” he told her. “But don’t go anywhere, I may be hungry tomorrow.”

  He turned away from her and walked through the door, his hunger more than sated and his need for diversion satisfied, as well. She sobbed as he left, still begging him to have mercy, and he smiled as he wiped the blood off his face with his traveling cloak. Mercy? Where did the woman think she was? He chuckled as he closed the door to the Larder and resumed his walk down the stone passage.

  Ramah the Blood Letter had returned to the Halls of the Bachiyr.

  PART IV

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Theron walked through Jerusalem’s empty streets, still tasting the whore’s blood on his lips. He’d had to mutilate her remains to disguise the fact that her veins were almost empty, but he’d used his sword and not his claws, figuring the zealots would likely shoulder the blame. After all, Pilate blamed them for just about everything these days, why not a dead prostitute. He could do nothing about the wound on her throat, however. She'd struggled too much for him to make a clean kill. He paused to admire the gold and ruby ring he’d taken from her finger. Beautiful. Probably worth a nice sum, too. He smiled and slipped it into a pouch on his belt.

  Aside from his new treasure, the woman’s blood restored him in the manner that only blood could, and he felt more like his old self. The back of his hand still bore a patch of blackened skin from where he’d struck Jesus, but a few more humans should help that to go away. Meanwhile, he had to check on the status of his mission. He left the New City and headed toward the barracks, hoping to find Taras.

  Instead of Taras, however, he came across a stranger dressed in a coarse black robe, his face hidden from view by a hood of the same color. By the stranger’s broad steps and rolling gait, Theron took it to be a man. The newcomer walked along the other side of the street, headed in the opposite direction, but when he neared Theron he crossed over. Theron tensed as he approached. There could be only a handful of reasons for one stranger to approach another in the middle of the night, and none of them were good. A zealot, perhaps? More likely a bandit. Theron waited, wanting to give the man time to get close enough. His death would be swift and silent; his blood would help cleanse the blackened skin from Theron’s hand.

  The stranger stopped about five paces away.

  “Good evening, Theron,” he said.

  Theron recognized the voice. “Simon?”

  Simon nodded and pulled back his hood, revealing his dark skin and short, curly black hair. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  “Why? And what are you doing in Jerusalem? Does the Council know you are away from your post?”

  “They know,” Simon replied. Theron thought he detected a hint of sarcasm in the other’s voice. “They sent me to find you. Ramah has returned to the Halls, and the entire Council wants to speak with you.”

  “What? Why? I haven’t finished my work, yet.”

  “They didn’t tell me. I guess they thought a mere clerk would have no need to know.”

  Theron definitely caught the sarcasm in Simon’s voice that time, but was too distracted by the news the Council wanted to see him to think much of it. What did they want? A thought came into his mind, then. Taras had been to the Gatehouse in Jerusalem, he’d even seen a Lost One. Did the Council know? Theron looked at Simon, noting the other’s smug expression, and he had his answer. Of course the Council knew. They always knew. The Lost One had probably informed Simon of the intruder at the door. Doubtless the clerk had gotten a great deal of pleasure out of revealing Theron’s mistake to the Council himelf, damn him.

  And damn the Council, too, for that matter. This mission was supposed to be a simple assassination, but it turned into a much more complex and delicate operation, and there were many factors involved of which they could have no knowledge. Did they have so little faith in his ability to clean up his own mess? Apparently so, for if Ramah had returned to the Halls, as Simon said, then there would be only one reason to pull Theron out of Jerusalem before his task was completed, and that would be to send Ramah in to finish where Theron left off.

  The Father take them, this was his mission. Not Ramah’s. This was Theron’s chance to prove his effectiveness. He kicked at a stone in the street, sending it flying through the gray night air to smack into the side of a building.

  He couldn’t argue with the Council of Thirteen, though. They did what they wished and didn’t explain themselves to anyone. Simon stood several paces away, his face still beaming with a self-satisfied smile.

  “Let’s go, then,” Theron snapped, wanting to get this over with. He stepped around Simon and headed for the Gatehouse.

  “Yes, let’s…” Simon replied.

  The slight edge to Simon’s voice was Theron’s first clue that something wasn’t right. The second came a heartbeat later when the streets around him went suddenly quiet. Theron knew the effect; he’d used it himself a thousand times. A Psalm of Silence. He turned to face Simon just in time to see the vampire charging at him, claws extended and fangs bared.

  Theron could have dodged the blow, and would have if he hadn’t been so confused. Instead he let Simon barrel into him, taking only enough precaution to block the claws and keep them from stabbing him through the chest. When the clerk’s body hit his own, the two tumbled over in the street, raising a small cloud of dust. They feinted and stabbed each other with hands made more dangerous by the sharp, bony points extending from their fingertips.

  Simon scrambled about like a madman. Wiry and strong, he possessed an agility Theron soon discovered he could not match. But Theron was far stronger. In addition, he had been a vampire and a warrior for over nine hundred years. Simon was only turned eleven years ago, still an infant by the standards of their race. Theron rolled and tussled in the street with the clerk, waiting for him to make the inevitable rookie mistake that would decide the fight; it shouldn’t take long.

  He was right. Only a few minutes into the scuffle Simon failed to pull his arm back from a blocked strike right away, opting instead to try and force the blow. In that moment Theron had him. He loosed his hold on Simon’s neck and grabbed his forearm. He locked his hand firmly around Simon’s wrist, then twisted his body to the right and bent over at the waist, forcing Simon to roll with him or have his arm broken. Simon rolled, of course, and at the apex of the arc Theron sidestepped and slammed Simon face first into the street. With his opponent’s face in the dirt, Theron rolled his legs onto Simon’s back and braced the man’s elbow against his stomach. Then he bent it backward until he felt the pop of Simon’s joint as it broke free of the tendons holding it in place. Simon’s arm went limp in his hand. The clerk would not be using it again anytime soon.

  Simon opened his mouth wide and started to scream, apparently losing his concentration on the Psalm of Silence when Theron broke his elbow. Luckily Theron had cast his own Psalm around them. Otherwise the clerk’s scream would have brought every guard in the city down on the two of them.

  I could kill him now. It was true. He could, but then he’d never know why Simon turned on him in the first place? Was it because of Jesus? Surely not.

  He grabbed the clerk’s other wrist and dragged him into an alley. Once there he dropped the silence and bent down, putting his mouth right next to Simon’s ear. “What is this about?” Theron asked.

  Simon laughed at him. “The Council sent me.”

  “To find me? You said that already.” Theron twisted the injured elbow until Simon’s laugh broke in his throat. “Tell me why you attacked me, Simon.”

  “No, not to find you,” Simon grunted. “They sent me to dispose of you. Headcouncil Herris gave me the order himself. The Council wants you dead, Enforcer.”

  Now it was Theron’s turn to laugh. “Come now, why would the Council send you to kill me? Surely you are not that foolish.”

  “You are the fool, Theron. Your time is over. I will take your place as Enforcer, and the Council will forget your name long before your bones are dust.”
/>   You have been lied to, vampire…

  Jesus's words came back to him, echoing in his mind. Theron shook his head, trying to clear the unwanted thought.

  “No. Surely not,” he said. And yet…

  …and you have been betrayed.

  “Burn you, Nazarene” Theron said under his breath as he tried to rid himself of the memory of his conversation with Jesus.

  Simon used Theron’s momentary distraction to kick him in the back of the head. Theron, surprised, lost his grip on the clerk’s wrists and fell to the side. Both vampires shot to their feet at the same time, and Simon rushed at Theron, his good arm braced back for a jab with his clawed hand.

  Theron had had enough. He sidestepped the charging vampire and stuck his foot in Simon’s path. Simon, already committed to his charge, could not stop or turn aside in time and tripped over Theron’s foot. As he tumbled over, Theron’s hand shot downward and punched into the back of Simon’s neck, his claws sinking deep into the other vampire’s flesh. Simon hung there, impaled through the throat by Theron’s elongated knuckles, and squirmed. Theron lifted him easily and brought him close. He clamped down on Simon’s ruined neck with his fangs, giving himself a much needed drink while his victim flailed at him with his uninjured arm.

  Simon gurgled and spat, but Theron wasn’t worried; he’d torn the vampire’s vocal chords out with the strike, and the only noises Simon could make while he died were a series of sputtering gasps. Soon, very soon, the clerk’s struggles weakened, and soon after that they stopped altogether. Theron finished feeding and tossed the husk to the ground, feeling renewed strength course though him.

  Once the fight was over, Theron tried to puzzle out what had just occurred, but it didn’t make any sense. If the Council wanted him dead, they would have sent Ramah, as he was the only vampire in existence capable of killing him, barring the other members of the Council, who were above such missions. It just wasn’t right. Why would they want him dead?