Bachiyr Omnibus

by David McAfee

  She realized for the first time that there was another person in the room. In addition to Theron’s musky, charred scent and the girl’s dirty, ragged one, there was another. The new scent was darker, murkier, like old, sticky blood. She turned her head and looked behind Theron to see a strange woman standing just behind him. Odd that she had not noticed her immediately. The woman had only caught her attention when Theron mentioned her.

  She was beautiful and dark, with deep brown eyes that pulled at Galle’s gaze even from across the room. Her brown hair fell down past her shoulders, framing a face that was at once pale and dark at the same time, as though someone had drained the blood from a heavily tanned human woman. Her clothes were black and draped across her body to hide her shape, but Galle had the impression that underneath those loose clothes the woman was lean and strong.

  The lack of a discernible heartbeat told her well enough that the newcomer was also Bachiyr. But who was she? And why was she here?

  “This is Baella,” Theron said, answering her unasked question. “She is here to help you with your problem.”

  “Oh?” Galle asked, pushing herself up into a sitting position, an act which caused her numerous wounds to burn anew. “Is she here to kill you?”

  Baella laughed. “Hardly. I’m here to help you accept who you must become.”

  Baella walked over to the sleeping child and whispered a word that Galle did not understand. She reached down and picked up the girl, then brought her over to Galle.

  “She is under a sleeping psalm,” Baella said. “You could not wake her with a hammer and anvil. She will not feel any pain.”

  Galle backed away, scooting across the floor on her rump.

  “I told you,” Theron said. “She won’t do it. Not yet. She will wait until she is nearly dead.”

  “I’ve only just begun,” Baella noted. She eyed Galle, her red pupils glowing like embers. “When I am done, she will feed. Gladly.”

  “You’ll have to kill her…or come close.”

  Baella snorted, as though such a thing were beneath her concern. Galle didn’t like the look on Baella’s face.

  “About Taras…” Theron began.

  “You should go and get him,” Baella replied. “He’s in the city below, looking for you. He is somewhere in the Eastern half of the city. He should be easy enough to find. Subtlety is not his strong suit these days. If nothing else, you should be able to follow the smell.”

  “Get him?” Theron asked. “Why?”

  “You need a strong test subject, do you not? This whimpering little sniff” she pointed toward Galle “is not strong enough to mix a bowl of water. Taras, on the other hand…”

  “It would be better to kill him and be done with it,” Theron replied, his voice tight, irritated. Galle hated when his voice sounded like that.

  “That it would,” Baella replied, “but you know I’m right.”

  She smiled again, allowing the full length of her canines to show.

  Theron snorted, then darted through the chamber exit. Galle watched him go, then turned to look as Baella approached. The dark woman looked her up and down, her eyes appraising. She stood there for several minutes, during which time Galle managed to find her feet. She stood, shaking, under the gaze of this new Bachiyr, who continued to stare at her, as though looking for something in particular.

  “I won’t kill her,” Galle said with as much strength as she could muster. “I am through killing children for that foul demon.”

  Baella’s eager gaze relaxed, and she looked down at the child and smiled. “Of course you won’t Galle.” She walked over to the side of the chamber and placed the sleeping girl on the floor. Her touch was gentle, motherly even, and her smile touched her eyes as well as her lips.

  Galle fumbled for something to say. “But…but you…the girl…”

  “That was for his benefit,” Baella said, nodding her head toward the door. “I knew you would not harm the child the moment I walked in. Theron is intelligent, but I’m afraid he is a very poor judge of character.”

  Galle tried to walk forward, but her legs would not support her weight. She stumbled and fell to her knees, cracking them hard on the stone. She swore under her breath. She’d opened another of the burns on her left thigh. It hurt like hell, and it started to bleed.

  She closed her eyes, fighting back the pain.

  Baella said something in a strange language. Galle didn’t understand it, but she recognized it as the same language Theron often spoke when he was conducting his ‘experiments’ on her. Those occasions never ended well for Galle. Her eyes snapped open, and she prepared to lunge at Baella, who stood chanting only a few paces distant.

  Before she could get three steps, however, the pain in her thigh began to lessen. She looked down, and the burn had closed, the pain dwindled as she watched the flesh knit back together. It wasn’t just her thigh, either. All over her body, her wounds were closing up and her burns were fading. The pain slowly numbed, then vanished altogether. Less than a minute after she tried to charge Baella, her body felt whole and strong again.

  “What…” she began. “What did you do?”

  “I gave you blood,” Baella said simply. “Your body did the rest.”

  “How? I didn’t bite you.”

  “How I did it is irrelevant,” Baella said. “I may teach you someday. Then again, I may not. We shall see soon enough.”

  “Why did you help me?” Galle asked.

  “Because I needed you to trust me.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because I can get you out of here and far, far away from Theron and his work. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  Galle smiled and flexed her whole, unburned limbs. “I no longer need help with that,” she said. She turned away from Baella and walked toward the door. Now that she was healed she should be able to get out of the passages and back to the city before Theron returned.

  And back to Jarek, of course. Her smile grew as she imagined the things she would do to him when she saw him again. I am coming for you, my love.

  As she neared the door, her skin began to itch and crawl. The closer she got to the doorway, the more maddening it became. It started to hurt, as well, and soon enough her skin started to char and burn. Small tendrils of smoke curled up from her knuckles as she tried to fight through the pain. Only a few more feet and she would be there. She reached out, trying to grab the door handle.

  Her hand erupted into flames. Galle screamed, then jumped back, patting the fire out on her tattered clothes. She looked up at Baella, wondering what the woman had done to her.

  “It was not me,” Baella replied. “Theron has cast a ward upon the doorway using your blood. Didn’t you know?”

  Galle had known about the ward, but she assumed the reason she could not break it was because she was so weak. She had thought she might be able to get past it if she was at full strength. Apparently not.

  “Why are you able to come and go?” Galle asked.

  Baella shrugged. “It’s your blood,” she said, as if the answer was obvious. “The ward only affects you.”

  “Can you break it?”

  Baella smiled. “I can, indeed. The better question is: will I?”

  “What do you want?”

  “To help you,” Baella said.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Helping you helps me.”

  “How?”

  “That’s my concern, not yours,” Baella said. “Do you want to get out of here or not?”

  “Yes,” Galle said without hesitation. “Yes, I do.” She turned to face the dark Bachiyr. “What do you want of me, Baella?”

  “Tell me everything you can remember about Theron’s experiments. Every word, every phrase, every physical ingredient, if any. I want to know exactly what I’m walking into before I allow him to lead me into that chamber of his.”

  “Don’t go in there,” Galle said, her voice a whisper. The memories of what Theron had done to her in
that room would never fade. “That is not a place you want to be.”

  “I can handle Theron,” Baella said. “I just hate surprises.”

  Galle looked her up and down. Baella was strong and confident, the very epitome of what Theron had told her their race should be. She walked erect, her back straight. Her features were cold and hard, but beautiful. Her easy grace spoke of a dexterity and control beyond human measuring. An aura of power surrounded her so completely that it seemed to crackle around her figure like a tiny electrical storm. Maybe she knew what she was doing, after all.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll tell you everything.”

  “Excellent.”

  Chapter Eight

  RAMAH? Taras thought. A spike of fear chilled his spine as he stared at the fearsome visage of one of the eldest and most dangerous Bachiyr in existence. Ramah the Blood Letter. Second of the Council of Thirteen. A Bachiyr whose lust for blood and violence was so well known that even Taras had heard of him more times than he cared to remember. And now the bastard was in Pompeii. Just when Taras arrived. It couldn’t be a coincidence. Damn you, Baella!

  He hadn’t seen Ramah in nearly two decades. The last time they’d crossed paths, Ramah had shoved a metal rod through his chest and pinned him to the floor. Taras almost died that night, but somehow had managed to pry his body up the length of the rod and escape. Injured and badly in need of blood, he’d have been as good as dead if Londinium hadn’t been under attack by a horde of bloodthirsty Iceni. He’d managed to escape during the chaos, but his chest still bore the scars of the metal rod Ramah had used to impale him.

  He’d been lucky in Londinium, and he knew it. He’d been lucky in Jerusalem, as well, when an angry mob of Jews had attacked Ramah just as the elder vampire was about to kill him. But how many times could luck save him from one of the fiercest Bachiyr in the history of the race? Hopefully, at least once more.

  “Ramah,” Taras said. “We meet again.”

  “It is good to see you, Roman,” Ramah said, holding the woman’s throat in one clawed hand. She batted at him with her fists and kicked him in the groin, but if Ramah felt it, he gave no sign. She might as well have been swatting air. “It has been too long.”

  “Not long enough,” Taras said, looking for a fast exit.

  “Do not bother,” Ramah said, tossing the woman to the street. She landed with a thud and went still. Taras could still hear her heart beating, but it was not as strong as it should have been. Ramah took a step forward, his lips twisted into a wicked smile. “There is nowhere you can run, Taras. You will not escape me again.”

  “That’s what you said last time,” Taras replied.

  “So I did.” Ramah chuckled. He took another step toward Taras.

  Taras bolted. He hated to leave the poor woman lying in the street, but he knew he could not survive a fight with Ramah. Escape was his only hope. And hers, as well. He doubted Ramah would bother with her when he had Taras in his sights.

  He was right about that. Ramah took up the chase immediately. Taras did not have to look behind him to know that the sanguinary Councilor was there, he could feel the other’s presence at his back, getting closer by the second. It would not take long for Ramah to catch him.

  But Taras did not have to make it easy. One of the benefits of what Theron had done to him included the ability to run much faster than humanly possible. He’d used this to his advantage before, and he would do it again tonight. He forced blood into the muscles of his legs and felt himself lurch forward with renewed speed. As long as the blood in his body held true, he could keep up this pace for hours. He sped down the cobbled street, looking for an escape. Very little opportunity presented itself. To his left he saw an alley, but without knowing where it went, it would be foolish to try. Ahead, the streets of Pompeii crossed over one another in a seemingly random manner, an aspect of the city that confused all but those who’d spent their entire lives there. Surely he could use that to his advantage.

  Taras didn’t know where to go in the city or how to get there. He was not even sure where he was now, but Ramah likely didn’t know, either. And if Taras could confuse the Councilor by turning down random streets, he might have a chance.

  Taras veered to the right, running down a street that was little more than packed earth. Apparently not all of Pompeii’s streets were cobbled. He ran until he found a street running to the left, and he took that one. It led to another intersection, and this time Taras veered right.

  He ran that way for several minutes, picking a new direction at random each time he came to a crossing. Before long, the sound of Ramah’s pursuit fell away, and he began to think he might live to see another sunset.

  He risked a quick look behind him and confirmed that Ramah was nowhere to be seen, then turned just in time to crash into the wall of a tavern. Taras cracked the stone surface with his skull, then fell to the street. He lay there, dazed and disoriented, as a pair of booted feet approached from the left. Ramah must not have been very far behind, after all.

  ***

  Jarek watched as the two Bachiyr sped away. Even in his weak state, the sight of the tall blond Bachiyr running from the dark one made him smile, but not as much as the pain in his throat. The fact that he was tired as well as weak spoke volumes about his condition, but Jarek reached up to his neck anyway and felt the warm wetness on his skin. He pulled his hand away and stared at the red fluid on his fingertips.

  Blood. His own blood. The Bachiyr had bitten him! Bitten him but not killed him!

  Jarek knew what that meant. He’d been trying to get Theron to do it for several years, but the Bachiyr refused, saying he needed Jarek right where he was for now.

  His smile widened as he reached into a pocket on his trousers and pulled out the vial of Bachiyr blood he’d gotten from Theron. He had intended to add this bottle to his current store of Bachiyr blood, most of which he’d been hoarding like gold, using it only sparingly on days when he knew he would need to be stronger or faster. But now, after the tall Bachiyr bit him, he could use it for something more.

  That one bite had made all the vials in his pantry worthless. Now Jarek would learn what true power felt like. Tonight, he would make the transition from human to Bachiyr. Finally!

  “Whatever your name is,” he whispered to the departing Bachiyr, “thank you.”

  He pulled the stopper from the vial and brought it to his lips, downing the blood in a single swallow. When it was finished, he tossed the vial aside and wiped his lips on his sleeve, wondering how long it would take to feel the effects.

  It didn’t take long. In less than a minute, the Bachiyr blood began to do its job.

  It started as a tingle in his extremities, which then worked its way up his limbs. As it went, the tingle grew into a maddening prickle of his nerves. He tried to scratch, but it didn’t help. As the feeling spread, it intensified further until it began to feel as though his arms and legs were on fire.

  Jarek writhed in pain in the middle of the dusty street, trying his best not to scream. Was this how it was supposed to work? He’d never seen anyone transformed before so he had no idea what to expect. This pain, though, certainly wasn’t what he thought he was getting into.

  The pain worked its way through his body, and finally Jarek could hold it in no longer. He screamed, but the sound was swallowed up by the tightness of his throat. The pain reached fiery fingers into his surging chest, and his screaming stopped.

  Jarek couldn’t breathe!

  He choked and gasped, struggling to feed air into his burning lungs, but it would not come. He panicked, somehow ignoring the pain in his limbs and rising to his feet. He tried to run to his house, but only made it a few feet before collapsing back onto the stone cobbles. He stared at the sky, confused, as the pain began to lessen.

  He felt heavy, and soon it was too much effort to hold up his head.

  Was it this dark before? Where had the stars gone?

  Jarek lay on the ground, gasping like a fish on the s
hore, as the world around him grew darker and darker.

  ***

  The ground shook beneath her back, waking her. She sat up, waiting for the tremor to fade. They had been coming more and more often lately, and she wondered if the mountain was trying to tell them something. As the fog of her thoughts melted away, she dismissed the notion. Vesuvius had given the city tremors for a hundred years or more; they were nothing new.

  When the earth settled, Caelina rose on unsteady legs. She turned her throbbing head this way and that, trying to discern where the tall man with the wild yellow hair had gone, but the street was empty but for herself and Jarek, who lay in a small puddle of blood a few paces away.

  She walked over to him. Her memory was hazy, but she thought she remembered the tall Roman mention something about missing children. Could Jarek know something about it? Could Jarek know something about Filo? It seemed impossible, but she had to find out.

  Caelina reached Jarek and knelt on the cobbles next to him. She reached out and touched him on the shoulder.

  “Jarek?” she said.

  He did not respond, so she shook him.

  When he still didn’t respond, she pulled his shoulder toward her. Jarek rolled over onto his back, and Caelina had to stifle a scream.

  His throat was torn open, and blood flowed sluggishly from the wound. His eyes, already glassy, stared vacantly at nothing. His skin was already beginning to cool, and his hands closed into tight fists at his sides. His lips were peeled back from his teeth, which were clenched shut like a vice. His deathly grimace bespoke of the great pain he’d endured as he died. Part of her was happy, while still another part of her wanted to shake him awake and ask him what the stranger meant about children.