by David McAfee
“None at all,” he said. “Not yet, at any rate.”
“That’s disappointing.”
“Indeed it is,” he replied. “I wanted to continue working on the psalm, but other matters took precedence.”
“Such as?”
“You will find out soon enough,” he replied. “But first, I have a request to make of you.”
Of course you do, she thought. “And that is?”
“This mountain is dying,” Theron said. “I need to find another location. A safe one. Vesuvius is angry. She is likely to erupt at any time. Not only that, but this place has become too obvious. The fact that you and Taras have both found me here proves that this is no longer a safe place to keep my sanctuary. If I am to finish, I need someplace where I can work without fear of being disturbed.”
“You wish to use my castle,” she stated.
“I can think of no safer place,” he said. “If the Council of Thirteen has not found it by now they never will.”
Baella nodded. She’d suspected as much. She also suspected she knew Theron’s real reason for wanting to gain admittance to her sanctuary. But one thing at a time.
“And what do I get for letting you into my home?”
“Would you like a demonstration?” he asked.
Baella nodded. She would, indeed.
“Then follow me,” Theron said, and turned toward the door.
She followed him out into the passages and down the stone walkways to the chamber where Theron kept Galle and the girl. When they arrived, she noticed a fresh set of symbols on the doorway.
“You put them together?” she asked. “Isn’t that dangerous?”
Theron chuckled. “Galle was never a threat to me. And Taras…well, I will let you see for yourself.” He pushed on the door, which opened without a sound.
Inside, Taras and Galle sad huddled in quiet conversation, seemingly oblivious to the fact that they were no longer alone in the large chamber. Taras was muttering something to Galle about something that was not her fault, and she should not blame herself. Typical Taras. He could find salvation in almost any human, and Galle…well, the woman was wretched enough that even Baella could almost feel sorry for her.
Almost.
What was interesting, however, was that Galle appeared to be crying.
That’s certainly different, Baella noted. In her four thousand years as a Bachiyr, she’d never once heard of one who retained the ability to shed tears. Like dreams, tears were the stuff of humanity, and a product of the soul. Bachiyr, who lack souls, are not able to produce either one. True, Galle’s ‘tears’ looked and smelled like blood, but even that was unusual enough to be noteworthy. Baella vowed to investigate this further when she had the time.
The two had not yet noticed their visitors. Theron cleared his throat loudly. The female jumped, then sprinted to the far side of the cavern, huddling against the wall with her face between her knees.
Taras, however, took one look at Theron and leapt to his feet. His claws and fangs extended, he launched his body forward, running at Theron with the speed that only another Bachiyr could fully appreciate.
If Taras’s angry charge bothered Theron, he showed no sign of it. Theron brought the vial of blood to his face. Just before the tall Roman reached him, Theron smiled thinly and breathed a quiet word across the mouth of the vial.
“Esh,” Theron said.
The effect was immediate. Taras stopped in mid stride and fell to the floor, screaming and frantically patting his skin. The Roman rolled across the cold stone as if his skin was on fire and he was trying to put it out. Small clouds of steam began to billow forth from his nose, eyes, and mouth. His screams filled the chamber, causing Galle to cover he ears with her hands. Across the room, the tiny bundle that was a living child stirred.
Theron allowed the torture to continue thirty more seconds before he brought the vial to his lips a second time. “Mayim,” he whispered, and Taras stopped moving. He stopped screaming, as well. Actually, the tall Roman had stopped doing anything at all. He simply lay on the stone, whimpering. Also whimpering was the human child, who now sat huddled against the stone wall, watching the proceedings with eyes as wide as apples.
Interesting, Baella thought. Fire and water in the language of the Jews. One burns the victim, the other cools him. She supposed that made the catalyst phrases easy to remember.
“Have you seen enough?” Theron asked.
Baella nodded. She was already working out the mechanics for herself.
The two left the chamber. Just before Theron closed the door, Baella saw the female move to Taras’s side. There was little enough that she could do to help the Roman, however. Theron’s psalm had quite painfully burned away a great deal of his energy. Galle did not look much better. Between the two of them, Baella doubted either had the strength to heal even a minor wound, much less the horrific damage inflicted by Theron’s new weapon. The only thing that would heal either of them was blood, and the only source of blood in the room was the little girl. Taras would die before harming her, she knew. But Galle? Probably not. As much as she refused to kill the girl, Galle hadn’t stayed alive for over a year under Theron’s guard by starving herself. That little girl would die sooner or later, and Taras would be too weak to stop it.
Of course, Galle could elect to feed on Taras, instead. Provided she knew she could survive on Bachiyr blood. Baella had no way of knowing if Theron had ever bothered to pass along that bit of survival information. Probably not. But even if Galle didn’t realize Bachiyr blood could sustain her, Taras did. He’d dined on numerous other Bachiyr over the last few decades. But was he strong enough now? Or had Theron weakened him too much?
She almost wished she was on the other side of the door, just to see what would happen next.
They left the stone passageways behind and soon came to a large, open chamber. Several makeshift stone benches littered the outside edges, and she made for one of them, dodging puddles of what looked like blood, and sat down. She faced Theron, and did not have to feign her admiration for what he had discovered.
“That was…interesting, to say the least,” she said.
Theron nodded his thanks. “It took me a decade to perfect.” He sat on the stone bench, close to Baella but not touching her.
“Time well spent,” she purred.
Theron smiled.
“You will teach me this?” she asked, although in truth she already had a good idea how it was done. It was an impressive feat, and one that she should have thought of herself centuries ago. The fact that Theron had thought of it first galled her, but not enough to matter. This was a dangerous new weapon, and Baella liked new weapons, especially those that could be turned against her fellow Bachiyr.
“This, and more,” Theron said.
“There is more?” she asked.
Theron nodded, a smile lighting his eyes. “What if I told you that I have almost cured our race of its biggest weakness?”
Baella had to pretend to be surprised. She had gathered as much from her conversation with Galle. Still, there was no sense offending Theron. Not yet.
“You can’t be serious,” she said.
“Indeed I am,” Theron said. “Give me the use of your castle, and in return I will present you with the secret to defeating the sun itself.”
Centuries of guile allowed Baella to keep her derisive snort to herself. The Sun could not be defeated. Even the Father was powerless against it. Baella smiled.
“Do we have a deal?” Theron asked.
“We do,” she replied. “Now tell me, how do you cause the heat to build up in their bodies?”
Theron proceeded to share the technique with her. She nodded and remembered to appear impressed, though in truth she had figured most of it out on her own already. The parts that she hadn’t been able to puzzle out would have come to her sooner or later. Theron had worked on the psalm for a decade, but in only ten minutes she had not only mastered the psalm, but figured out how to improve
it, as well. She would have to try a few experiments of her own once she returned to her castle.
Theron babbled on and on about how powerful their alliance would be, how dangerous they could become together, and how much the world would come to fear them. To her ears, he was trying too hard. His eagerness to go to her realm merely cemented what she was beginning to suspect about his motives, and she had already decided not to take him back to her sanctuary, despite their deal. Not that she would have ever had to live up to her end of it, anyway. Killing him would eliminate any such obligations.
***
Ramah walked through the city of Pompeii, absently wiping his sleeve across his lips and chin. It came away red, shining wetly in the moonlight. The image brought a slight smile to his face, the memory of the woman’s death still fresh in his mind. She was a whore, and not likely to be missed by anyone. He’d left the body where it fell, but took care to make the damage to her throat minimal. Afterward, he’d taken his sword and hacked at the corpse until whoever found it would not be able to tell what killed her. Not that the city guard would spend a great deal of time or energy investigating the death of a prostitute. The city had more. There was no shortage of whores in Pompeii.
Ramah walked along the cobbled street, stopping once more to devour a drunkard who’d bumped into him. The man was so inebriated that Ramah could taste the wine in his blood. It added an interesting flavor. Ramah had not had wine in four thousand years, and he rather enjoyed the reminder. He vowed to start feeding on drunkards more often.
He continued his search of the city, knowing he would find what he sought sooner or later. Or rather, where he sought. Ramah knew where he wanted to go, but he was not familiar with Pompeii’s streets so it took him a while to find the exact place he was looking for. He spent a good deal of time smelling the air and following where his nose led him. When he finally arrived, the spot was empty. Good.
A large brown stain marked the place where Taras had attacked the city guard. From what Ramah knew about the blond Roman, he could assume the guard was no innocent. Taras never shed the blood of those who he did not feel deserved his wrath. A silly code that Ramah would have broken him of long ago, if only he’d been able to capture the troublesome renegade.
Ramah spat on the stain. It was likely the guard had been trying to rape the woman. That would certainly have raised Taras’s ire. In retrospect, Ramah had been foolish not to kill the woman when he had the chance. The more he thought about his encounter the previous night, the more he came to believe that Taras had baited him. The tall Roman had run, knowing that Ramah would give chase, and Ramah had obliged and quickly lost his quarry in the maze of streets and turns.
It irked him that the Roman had been able to lose him so easily. He should have studied the city maps in the Halls prior to his departure, but he’d been so eager to get to the city and find Theron that he hadn’t bothered. He hadn’t expected to find Taras here, either. Yet another surprise that he should have been prepared for.
Well done, Roman, he thought. Ramah would be more careful next time.
And there would be a next time. Ramah would see to it. In fact, that’s why he was here.
Like all Bachiyr, Taras had a very distinct scent, but it did not transfer to other objects. As such, no one could track a Bachiyr by that means. Humans, on the other hand, left their smell on everything they touched. Every rock or blade of grass that a human stepped on would carry their scent for days, even weeks depending on the surrounding temperature. Smells lasted longer in the winter, when heat and damp were not factors, but even in the warm, humid month of August a human’s particular odor could remain behind for several nights. Ramah should only need one night to find the human he needed.
If the woman had a connection to Taras, Ramah had no doubt he could persuade her to tell him where to find the renegade. If she didn’t, well, Ramah had fed twice tonight already, but once more wouldn’t hurt. He circled the area, looking for the place where he’d shoved the woman to the ground. Her scent would be strongest there and thus easiest to discern from the hundreds of other humans who’d passed through the area during the day. He bent his head close to the ground, almost getting down on all fours, and he walked slowly around, smelling the air.
There! he realized, coming to the place where he recalled seeing her sprawled on the street. Ramah bent over the spot and took a deep breath, committing the woman’s smell to memory. Flowers…jasmine, with a hint of steel and the thrilling taint of blood. This woman was no wilting lily; she had used her steel on other humans on more than one occasion. Ramah would need to remember that.
He stood up straight, tasting the air and searching for her trail which did not take long to locate. Ramah smiled and began to walk. Now that he had her scent, he no longer needed to hunch over the street like a dog. Even from a standing position, he could detect her path as easily as if she’d left a line of stones behind her.
He followed the scent all through the city, expecting to find the woman sleeping somewhere near the soldiers’ quarters. The smell of blood and steel was strong. She was probably a guardsman’s wife. Either that or yet another whore who spent much of her time plying her trade among the city guard. The Father knew there were plenty of those around. That was good. It meant she was not likely to be missed. Thus he was surprised when her trail led out of the city altogether. He paused near the city borders, making sure he had the right scent. He did. The woman was heading north into the woods. Where was she going?
As he stood pondering this new development, the earth began to tremble again. This time, the shaking was not violent, and it did not last very long. In fact, Ramah doubted any of the sleeping humans in the city had even felt it. The tremors had been so light that only a Bachiyr, with their advanced senses, would have known about them.
They did draw his eyes to the volcano, however. As soon as he saw it, he knew where the woman had gone.
“Vesuvius,” he whispered, frowning.
As Head Enforcer for his race and one of the most powerful of his kind, there was very little in this world that Ramah feared. The Father’s Wrath, Headcouncil Herris’s anger, and the disgrace of personal failure were the only things that held any fear for him. But fire still commanded a healthy respect. Fire could hurt him. Badly. Fire could kill him. Fire could ruin this mission and all others behind it by sending Ramah to the Father’s clutches too early, and this woman was walking right into a mountain of it.
Damn, he thought. Is she insane? Has she not felt the shaking of her city and realized the mountain’s anger? Probably not. Most of the city’s inhabitants seemed cheerily oblivious to the impending danger, but all the signs were there. Vesuvius would not remain docile much longer. It was almost enough for him to turn around and look for another means, but he’d already wasted several hours following this lead. He was loathe to start over now.
Very well, he thought as he left the city and followed her trail into the night. If the woman wanted to walk directly into the flames of Vesuvius, Ramah meant to be there to see how well she burned.
Chapter Eleven
“ARE you ready?” Theron asked, motioning for Baella to follow him with his blackened hand. She wondered if it still pained him, but was wise enough not to ask.
Baella nodded, then stepped beside him. Together the two left Theron’s private chambers and made their way into the stone passages, heading toward the two imprisoned Bachiyr.
They’d been in his uncomfortable, rather Spartan private chambers for several hours, most of which was spent discussing the rituals he would use to strengthen Taras’s skin. The hope was that the rituals would harden Taras’s skin, like an insect’s exoskeleton, making it impervious to heat and light. Of course, there were risks involved. Taras’s skin could harden so much that he would be unable to move, or prove invulnerable to Theron’s attempts to control him, or the Roman could simply die from the procedure.
Theron had explained that he’d been trying for a decade, and had encountered al
l those problems in the past, as well as numerous others.
“But I’m close,” he had said. “So very close. Tonight, I think we will begin the dawn of a new age for the race of Bachiyr, and the end of the Council of Thirteen.”
Baella had her doubts, but she kept them to herself. Still, at the very least, the night should prove to be entertaining.
“I think I am going to enjoy this,” she said. “But will they survive the test? Do you think that tiny child was enough to renew their strength?”
“She would be, if either of them were willing to feed on her, but I’d be very surprised if the girl is not still breathing when we arrive.”
“I see.” Baella shrugged. She had been thinking the same thing.
“I don’t understand it,” Theron continued, his words punctuated by the sounds of his feet as they padded along the stone. Baella’s feet made no such noise. “Neither of them seem to truly grasp what it means to be Bachiyr. Taras will kill, but only when he finds someone he thinks deserves to die. Galle will kill, as well, but only when she has no other choice. Indeed, several of her victims died of starvation themselves, waiting for her to feed on them.”
“Would you like to know why?” Baella asked.
“I believe that was part of the deal, was it not?”
“Indeed it was,” she said. “The reason your progeny are defective is because you do not know how to transform them properly.”
Theron stopped and turned to face her. “What do you mean? It’s a simple exchange of blood, is it not? I take theirs, then give them mine. It’s easy, really. I changed dozens of them before I left the Halls.”
Before you fled them in disgrace, you mean, Baella thought, but she kept it to herself.
“Easy, is it?” She smiled, enjoying the irritation on Theron’s face. “Then what seems to be the problem?”
“Very well,” Theron replied, resuming his walk. “What did I miss?”
Baella again fell into step beside him. “What do you remember most about your change?” she asked.