AFTER, Taras and Theron: Beyond Jerusalem

by David McAfee

  Her arms went limp and her eyes clouded over. She lay stunned and unmoving in the street. The effect would only last a moment, just long enough for her senses to return, but it was long enough. Theron pressed his jaws to her throat and opened her veins, drinking greedily from the fountain of a very old vampire’s well.

  Power surged through him, igniting his nerves along the way as her potent blood filled his every pore. She had lived for over two thousand years, and was a direct child of Lannis. Her potent blood screamed with energy, tearing through his body like lightning. Her body shriveled beneath him but still he drank, unwilling to break the connection.

  When at last the flow of blood ceased, he noticed the utter silence around him. Neither he nor Adonia had cast a Psalm of Silence, but the air was deathly quiet. He raised his head and looked around. It took a moment for his eyes to focus, the heady blood in Adonia’s body had left him with a bit of vertigo. But once his vision cleared he noted several humans standing nearby, watching him with eyes as wide as dates. None of them had moved to intervene, which he took as a good sign.

  Theron shot to his feet and snarled at the crowd, baring his teeth for all to see. All but one of the spectators fled, apparently finding better things to do than confront a murderous Bachiyr. Smart. The single remaining witness stepped forward, and Theron caught a glimpse of his face. It was another Bachiyr, perhaps come to claim the Council’s prize. He looked young, but among his race, appearances meant nothing. However, his nervous expression and the way his fingers fidgeted at his waist told Theron he was probably no more than a few decades old. He might even be one of Adonia’s children. If so, his blood would be sweet, indeed.

  The new Bachiyr’s eyes went from Theron to the dried up corpse of Adonia, and then back. In Theron’s time, Adonia had been the most powerful Bachiyr in the city. That would explain the young vampire’s sudden reluctance.

  “You know her?” Theron pointed at the body, which had started to flake away in the light breeze.

  The youth nodded.

  “You feared her,” Theron noted.

  The youth nodded again.

  “You see what I did to her, this most powerful of Athens’ Bachiyr?”

  He nodded and took a step backward.

  Theron sprang forward, catching the other Bachiyr off guard and grabbing his shoulders before the youth could think to block him. The young vampire struggled, but Theron’s hand clamped onto his shoulder and brought him in close. Fear radiated from him like a cold mist, and he reprised his opinion of the youth’s age. Not more than a decade, most likely. Theron flashed his fangs, smiling as the younger vampire shut his eyes and tried to look away. Theron dug his claws into the youth’s flesh, reveling in his victim’s pained groan.

  “Look at me,” Theron commanded.

  The young vampire turned to look at him, his face a mask of fear and pain.

  “You know who I am,” Theron said.

  The young vampire nodded.

  “Say my name.” Theron squeezed his fingers, digging them deeper into flesh.

  “Theron!” the other gasped. “Theron of Macedonia.”

  “Good.” Theron relaxed his grip a bit, and some of the tension went out of the other vampire’s body. “Tell every Bachiyr you meet about this. Make sure they know that I am the one who killed Adonia of Athens, and let it be a warning to them. I will do the same to every Bachiyr who tries to hunt me. Swear to do that, and I will let you live.”

  The younger vampire nodded, his face reflecting his eagerness to get out of this alive.

  “Swear it!” Theron dug his claws deeper, grinding their tips against the young vampire’s bones.

  “I swear it!” he replied. “By the Father, I swear!”

  Theron released the youth’s arms, smiling. The younger vampire dropped back a few paces, rubbing the bloody holes in his arms. He glared at Theron for a moment, then turned to go.

  “Wait,” Theron said. The youth turned around to face him, a wary look on his face. “There is one more thing I want you to do. Take her body back to the Council’s gate in Athens and leave it with the clerk.”

  The young vampire’s eyes widened again. Theron understood. Such a thing would be taken as a direct dare to the Council. Doubtless the youth thought he was crazy.

  “Do it,” Theron repeated, “or I will kill you and find someone who will.”

  The youth nodded again and stepped over to Adonia’s body. He lifted it over his shoulder and started walking down the street. Occasionally, he would glance over his shoulder, perhaps to make certain Theron was not about to go back on his word. Theron considered going after him and driving his claws through the other vampire’s spine, but decided against it. He wanted this message delivered.

  Once the Council saw Adonia’s body, they would know they had underestimated their former Lead Enforcer. Few, if any, of their servants would be a match for him. Which meant if the Council of Thirteen wanted him brought to justice, they would have to do it themselves.

  He walked down the street, headed for the edge of the city. It would take the youth an hour or so to reach the Council’s portal in Athens, and it would take another few hours for the Council to be roused and alerted. By then the young vampire would be in a cell somewhere, waiting for Algor to interrogate him. Theron had witnessed many such interrogations. The young vampire would very likely never leave the Halls of the Bachiyr. An older, more experienced vampire would have simply fought Theron then and there, preferring to die outright than suffer through Algor’s manipulations. Theron had done him no favors by sparing his life.

  He smiled as he left Athens and began walking through the lush, moonlit countryside, wondering how long it would take Ramah to find him.

  However long it took, he meant to make the bastard work for it.

  THE END

  If you enjoyed reading more about Taras and Theron, be sure to check out 61 A.D., available now for only $2.99!

  The thrilling sequel to the 2010 horror bestseller, 33 A.D.

  Britannia, 61 A.D. For ten years, Taras has lived in the young city of Londinium, feeding off the city’s underbelly. But now Theron, his old enemy, has come looking for revenge, and Taras’ nights of living in relative peace are about to end.

  Yet not even Theron can slip into town unnoticed, and the Council of Thirteen sends Ramah to deal with the two renegades once and for all. But unknown to the Council, a much older enemy is also in Londinium, and this time even the great Ramah might not be safe.

  Set against the backdrop of the Iceni uprising in Roman-era Britannia, 61 A.D. continues the story of Taras, Theron, and Ramah, as they fight their way through history.

  Keep reading for a free preview of 61 A.D.

  Prologue

  She enjoyed this part the most. The part where they started to scream. It didn’t matter how old or how strong they were, when she started to work her particular brand of magic, they all screamed. Even the tough ones; the ones who thought they could hold out and be strong. The ones who thought they were stronger than she was. Those types usually screamed loudest of all. Of course, that could be because she was harder on them than the ones who cooperated, but it didn’t matter.

  In the end, she thought, all Bachiyr are cowards. They all had their breaking point.

  This particular Bachiyr hadn’t lasted long at all. His screams sounded long and loud, echoing off the walls of the keep and traveling the length of the hallways and through the chambers beyond. She couldn’t hide her smile as she realized that the humans in the valley below probably heard them, too. Good. It would give them yet another reason to stay away from her home, as if they needed further warning.

  She watched her prisoner squirm, enjoying the burnt smell of his flesh while her fire scorched his toes. She controlled the flames with a simple psalm, but she had to constantly monitor it to make sure it maintained just the right temperature. If she allowed it to get too hot the fire burned away the nerves and the prisoner would feel nothing. If she allowed the
fire to get too cool it lost its effectiveness. After several millennia of practice she had mastered the ability, much to her prisoner’s dismay.

  He’d tried to resist her, even going so far as to tell her to go to the Abyss and calling her all manner of filthy names. He even spat at her, but he missed. She had seen it all before. In four thousand years she’d seen just about everything there was to see. Not much surprised her these nights.

  After two minutes she cooled the flames—not out of any sense of mercy, but because she needed information. A prisoner who is screaming can’t speak.

  The Bachiyr’s feet were little more than charred stumps. Even if she let him go—which she had no intention of doing—he would never walk again. But at times like these few prisoners ever seemed to think that far ahead. Mostly they just wanted the pain to stop. It made getting information much easier.

  “There, Agnor,” she said when he stopped screaming, “is that better?”

  Agnor whimpered something in reply, but she couldn’t make it out.

  “You’d better speak more clearly, Agnor.” She reached over and touched his cheek, running her nails along his jawline with enough force to break the skin. Blood dripped from a thin red wound, and he shivered in his bonds. It reminded her that she had not yet fed this evening. She would have to remedy that soon. “You don’t want to displease me. Your feet were just the beginning.”

  “It is better,” he said, his teeth clenched against the pain.

  “Good. I am glad you can talk. We have much to discuss, you and I.”

  “I already told you, I don’t know where he is.” His voice had taken on a whiny tone. Not good. He already knew he would never leave her keep alive. Damn. It made it harder to get what she wanted, but the difficulty often made the getting more entertaining.

  “Agnor,” she cooed, “You are a clerk to the Halls of the Bachiyr. No, no. Don’t try to deny it, I know it’s true. You have access to information that few others can get. If anyone outside the Council of Thirteen would know of his location, it would be you.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Spare me,” she said. “You are a terrible liar.”

  “And you are going to kill me no matter what I tell you,” Agnor said.

  “True enough,” she admitted. “You’ve seen my face. I can’t very well let you leave. But whether your death takes ten seconds or ten days is up to you. Tell me where he is and you will die like this.” She snapped her fingers. “Or keep stalling. You are only dragging the pain along further.”

  Without waiting for an answer, she turned the flames on again. This time she started at his fingertips, charring away the skin and flesh as slow as she could, marveling at how his skin crackled and curled upward as it turned black. The acrid odor reached her nostrils and she covered her nose with a damp cloth. Despite her pleasure at the smell’s source, she could only stand it for so long. Agnor screamed again, shaking his head violently back and forth. Amidst the screams were words which she barely understood. Another denial. He was really playing out the lie. Excellent.

  When his hands were gone, she cooled the flames again. This time she had to wait several minutes for Agnor’s screams to subside. When at last he quieted, he lay on the stone altar whimpering. Several small red trails leaked from the corners of his eyes. Blood. The coppery smell mixed with the scents of moss, stone, and burned flesh. She sighed, pleased with herself. She had another card to play.

  “Do you think they will save you?” she asked. “They don’t even know you are here. When you failed to report to the Council this evening, how much time do you think they wasted looking for you? None, I’ll wager. You are nothing to them, Agnor. Nothing. They will replace you without a moment’s thought on where you might be. That bastard Herris has probably already seen to it. You owe him nothing, and the Father even less. Why suffer longer than you must? Tell me what I need to know. Where is Ramah? Where did they send him last?”

  Agnor quieted and turned to look at her. His eyes hardened, and the set of his jaw firmed. She didn’t like the expression on his face at all, and she already knew what his response would be. Damn it.

  “It’s Headcouncil Herris,” he said.

  She nodded. She’d expected as much. “Very well, Agnor, clerk of Herris. Have it your way. I will enjoy making you talk.”

  Agnor closed his eyes. She was just trying to decide where next to burn him—perhaps his manhood—when her thoughts were interrupted by a loud knock on the wooden door. Only one person would disturb her at a time like this.

  “Come in, Feyo,” she called.

  The door opened and her pet human entered the room. Feyo was large by human standards, and muscular, which is why she kept him around. She had taken him from the lands just south of the sea as a child and raised him at her keep, biting him every month or so to keep him healthy and stronger than normal. He bore the black hair, dark skin, and deep brown eyes of his people. He kept his tight curly hair cut short so that it resembled a small black rug on his head. Today he wore little more than a loincloth, leaving his lean chest and abdomen bare and shiny with sweat.

  Had she any such desires she might have mated with him. But fond as she was of her servant, he was still human. She might as well mate with the dogs or horses.

  “Mistress Baella,” Feyo said. “I have good news.”

  “Speak it.”

  “Your runners have found one of the renegades from Jerusalem.”

  Baella turned to face him. That was good news. “Where?”

  “Londinium.”

  “Britannia? Why would Theron go there?”

  “Not Theron, Mistress,” Feyo replied. “The other one. The tall one. The one who looks like a northerner but acts like a Roman.”

  “Taras,” she said, not even trying to hide her disappointment.

  On the table, Agnor snorted. He knew which one she wanted, too. Smarmy bastard. She turned to him and set his crotch on fire. His screams made her feel a little better, but not much.

  “The Roman is of no use to me,” she said, raising her voice to be heard above Agnor’s screams.

  “Ramah will not come looking for him?” Feyo asked.

  “Ramah cares nothing for him. Neither does the Council.”

  “But he has eluded them for decades. Surely they—”

  “They will send lesser Enforcers to hunt him down,” she interrupted. “Herris and Ramah will not trouble themselves for one of such thin blood, Feyo. You know this already. Leave now. If you find Theron or Ramah, let me know.”

  “But Mistress,” Feyo persisted, “Theron cares a great deal about the Roman even if the Council doesn’t, does he not?”

  “Of course he does,” she snapped, losing her temper and her focus at the same time. The flames on Agnor’s crotch died instantly, but his screams went on. She turned to regard her servant, concerned about his line of questioning. Did he think she was a fool? “Theron hates Taras with a passion. He’ll never rest until…until…”

  Until Taras is dead, she realized.

  That’s what Feyo was trying to say. Of course. Bait for bigger bait. Ramah might not come looking for Taras, but he would come for Theron. And Theron, she thought, will come for Taras. No matter where he is.

  “Brilliant,” she said. “Well done, Feyo.”

  Feyo’s face cracked in a wide smile. “What are your orders, Mistress?”

  “Send twenty men out. Give them each twenty gold and tell them to spread word of a tall, blonde man in Londinium with sharp teeth in every tavern and brothel they come to. When the men run out of gold, they are to return here and report. Theron likes to hunt in those places, he’ll hear about it eventually.”

  “Yes, Mistress.” Feyo bowed and left the room.

  Once word spread that Taras was hiding in Londinium, Theron would make all haste to get there. She would have to plant a message in the Council, as well, to make sure Herris found out. He would send Ramah, and she would be waiting.

  Finally, after four thousand
years, the Blood Letter would be hers.

  Agnor whimpered, drawing her attention back to the table.

  “You heard that, I suppose,” she said.

  Agnor nodded. “You don’t need me anymore.”

  “So it seems,” she replied.

  His look of relief brought a smile to her lips, and she couldn’t stifle a short, derisive laugh. “You think that entitles you to a quick death?”

  “But…you don’t need me,” he repeated. “You have what you want.”

  “Yes, but not from you,” she replied. “Rest assured, when the time comes for me to kill Feyo he will die quick and painlessly. You, on the other hand, will be around for a very long time.”

  When Baella brought the flames back, Agnor’s scream seemed even louder and sweeter than before.

  I’m coming for you, Ramah.

  Bonus Story

  THE UGLIEST THING

  By Daniel Arenson

  "People have liberated death camps and continued to live normal lives. People have witnessed death, starvation, and disease and went on. But this photograph..." The old man shook his head, sighing. "Psychologically, it's like watching your little daughter tortured; the mind breaks."

  Downie leaned forward in his chair. He pushed his spectacles up his nose. "But what could be so horrible? According to what you've told me, there should be nothing out there but vacuum and some asteroids."

  The old man sighed again and passed a hand through his wispy hair. "I wish I could answer you, doctor. God help me, I wish I could. But our telescope photographed something out there, something so horrible it turns people into quivering, frightened mutes."

  Downie leaned back slowly, blowing out his breath. "Professor," he said, "you need a neurologist for this one, not a psychiatrist. Whatever you photographed must be some... optical illusion, something so powerful it burns the brain."

  The old astronomer shook his head. "No optical illusion, Dr. Downie. There is something horrible in that photograph. Those who viewed it managed to whisper 'how ugly' before becoming catatonic."