
TARAS AND THERON: BEYOND JERUSALEM
By
David McAfee
Kindle Edition
Cover Design by David McAfee
Cover image provided by iStockPhoto
This is a work of fiction. The events depicted in this story are entirely products of the author's imagination and should not be construed as fact.
Kindle Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your direct use only, please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Visit David McAfee on the web at mcafeeland.wordpress.com or on his website:
Twitter: DavidLMcAfee
Facebook: David McAfee
This book is dedicated to my infant son, Cole David McAfee, who joined us on January 30, 2011. I love you more than I thought possible.
Table of Contents
Bonus Story: The Ugliest Thing by Daniel Arenson
Also by David McAfee:
Bachiyr Novels:
Horror Novels:
The Gallows Tree (October 2011)
The Dead Man Series:
Short Story Collections:
Devil Music and 18 Other Stories
On the road to Antioch, 33 A.D.
Taras stumbled down the dusty path. His flagging strength made every step a chore, but he was determined to reach his goal before sunrise. A month of traveling at night---sometimes all night long---as well as the lack of fresh blood in his body had taken its toll. He'd tried to feed on some passersby along the way, but each time he tried he remembered Abraham's torn and bloody throat, and he stopped himself. What kind of monster had he become? What would Mary think if she saw him murdering innocent travelers? In the end he was left with his hunger and his weakness, wandering though Israel with only his memories for company.
Gods, how he had loved her. Even though he'd seen her torn and bloodless body with his own eyes, he still had trouble accepting her death as fact. Often, he would catch himself looking up at the sound of a woman's voice, always expecting to see Mary's face staring back at him. Of course, it never was. Mary's body remained in her tomb at the Mount of Olives, hundreds of miles to the south and east, while he was on the road to Antioch.
It should have been me, he thought. He would trade places with Mary in a heartbeat if it would bring her back. Surely death would be better than his life now, if only he had the courage. What was it Jesus had told him that night outside her tomb? There is always an option, even if it's not always a very good one. None of Taras' options were particularly good. He could swallow his fate and start killing more people, or he could die. At the moment, only the latter seemed to offer any type of rescue.
By the time he reached the outskirts of Antioch he could barely stand. Still he managed to find just enough strength to take one more step, and then another, and another. But it couldn't last. Without blood, he would eventually fall over and be unable to rise. Then the sun would come and burn him to ashes.
Maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing.
The walls of the city loomed ahead. Taras would have to go over the wall or take his chances with the guards at the gate. At least the gate was open. That was a good sign. Several other cities he'd come to were locked tight against the spreading influence of the dead Jewish rabbi. The guards at those cities had chased him away with arrows and swords. They couldn't kill him anymore, of course, but an arrow to the shoulder still hurt like the Abyss.
Taras decided to try the gate, mostly because he was too weak to climb the wall. As he approached, one of the guards looked up. The other leaned against the gate, his breathing soft and even. Asleep. Taras shook his head. The sleeping guard would not have lasted in Jerusalem. Marcus would have had him imprisoned for such an infraction. The other guard eyed him for a moment, then waved him through without asking a single question.
The difference in discipline among the Antioch city guard and those stationed in Jerusalem could not have been greater. Marcus had run a strict watch even though Rome continued to send him the dregs of the Legion to garrison the city. The soldiers in Antioch just didn't seem to care. Yet despite his distaste for the two men, he was thankful for their lackluster attitude. It allowed him to walk into the city unmolested.
Thinking about Marcus brought new pain. The Centurion had been more than just a commanding officer, he'd also been a good friend. But for the treachery of his Second, he would still be alive today. But the Second, a man named Gordian, had betrayed him at the request of his long dead brother, and Marcus became another victim of the web of lies woven by the damnable Bachiyr.
Bachiyr like me, Taras thought, I am one of them now. He watched his feet as he wandered into the city, not trusting himself to meet the gaze of others. Could they see it on him? Would they know? Taras walked through Antioch with his head down. He might as well have the word "Evil" painted across his face. The Jews believed that a man named Cain, who murdered his brother, was sent out into the world with God's mark on his face so that all would know of his heinous deed.
If Taras looked in a pool of water, what would he see? Did the Jews' God mark him?
As he walked through the city, he felt many eyes on him, but he dared not look up to confirm his suspicions. If the people of Antioch stayed clear of him, so much the better. The hunger gnawed at him like a wild thing, and he didn't know how much longer he could control it. So whether the people stayed back because they sensed his evil or because they simply distrusted strangers, they were safer for keeping their distance.
Safer than Taras, at any rate.
He passed a noisy tavern on his right. The sounds of drinking, laughter, and fighting poured from the doorway and out into the street, along with the smells of ale, wine, and sweat. Taras risked a glance up the street and saw that both sides were lined with taverns and brothels, all of which seemed to be doing a brisk business this evening. The people of Antioch certainly enjoyed their pleasures.
One dirty man in ragged clothing walked up to Taras and fixed him with a half-lidded stare. The sour smell of wine rolled off him like flies on a pile of dung. The bleary-eyed stranger wobbled on his feet, then fell forward, wrapping his arms around Taras' neck to break his fall.
"You're him, aren't you?" the stranger asked, his slurred words barely discernible even to Taras' keen ears. "You're the one she talks about."
Taras blanched, not sure what the man might have heard. He tried to pry the drunk's hands away, but the man grabbed his shoulder and shook him.
"Don't lie," he said. "I know it's you. She's mine, so stay away from her."
Taras stared at the man's flushed face and blotchy red nose. His eyes moved to the man's throat, and he found himself wondering if he would taste the wine in the drunk's blood. His belly rumbled, and a sharp pain stabbed through his gut. He could feel the fangs in his upper jaw start to extend, and the claws on his fingers itched, as though they, too, wanted to taste the man's blood. Taras stared at the man's neck. So hungry. So weak. The man was too drunk to feel the sting of his teeth, it would be so easy to---
No!
Taras squirmed away, finally freeing himself from the man's wine-induced grip. "I will," he said, as he gently pushed the drunk away. Then he turned and walked as fast as he could down the street. The man's voice followed him, but Taras didn't listen. He wanted to get as far away as he could lest he give in to his hunger.
He rounded a corner and stopped, trying to calm the angry buzzing in his head. Across the street, the sound of music poured out from another brothel, while men and ladies danced in the common room. A rumble in his belly rivaled the noise of the brothel, and another sharp pain flared through his abdomen, worse than the last. Taras sunk to the street in agony, leaning against the wall and clutching his midsection. He shook his head, trying to clear the vertigo, and was surprised by the wetness on his cheeks. It couldn't be tears, he could no longer make them. Taras reached a trembling finger to his face, rubbing the wetness under his eyes, and then examined his hand.
It was red.
Blood. That's what's on my face. Blood was leaking from his eyes.
Another spasm of pain sent him the rest of the way to the ground, and he swallowed a scream. His hunger hollowed him out, scooping up his innards and throwing them aside for the rats. He realized then that, despite his best efforts, his hunger was going to win.
He'd tried to resist it, even if it meant his death, but he wouldn't make it much longer. In Jerusalem, the Bachiyr who killed him had stabbed him in the gut with his claws, leaving Taras to die in a pool of his own blood and innards as both leaked out onto the cobbled street. At the time it had been the worst pain he'd ever experienced. This was worse. This pain came from inside, and it ran dizzying circles through his mind as well as his body, lighting little fires everywhere it touched. If dying felt like this, he didn't think he could do it. He wasn't strong enough.
There is always a choice.
Lying in the dirty street, Taras made his.
He would have to feed, after all.
\*\*\*
The next night found him standing in darkness, hiding behind the corner while waiting for his victim. The light of the city's lamps did not penetrate the shadows of his hiding place, which suited him fine. He'd long ago grown accustomed to biding his time in dark places while he waited for his victims to reach just the right spot. Long before he'd become one of the Bachiyr, his years as an assassin in the Roman Legion honed his patience to a fine point. He stood watching the drunkard who would be his next meal, his muscles coiled like a tightly woven rope, waiting for the right moment to spring into action.
His target stumbled near the alley, a cracked mug of mead or wine in his hand, and sang a bawdy tavern song as he leaned against the building. The smell of sweat and alcohol drifted toward Taras. Almost time. A few more steps and Taras would have his meal. The emptiness in his belly screamed at him to attack, but the time was not right. The man needed to be directly in front of the alley so Taras could take him without being seen. This particular street had too many taverns and far too many brothels to ever be truly empty.
A woman in a garish dress caught up to the man and, laughing, placed a bright red flower in his hair. He turned and grabbed her by the waist, pulling her close for a drunken kiss. The two laughed together, and then they turned away from the alley and walked across the street, entering a brothel that sported half a dozen brightly dressed women just outside the door and double that number in men looking for entertainment.
Taras watched them disappear into the building. The hunger in his belly faded to an insistent rumble, but he ignored it. He had eyes only for the red flower, which the man had removed from his hair and stuck into the woman's cleavage. It was the same kind of flower as those he brought to Mary's tomb. Had it really only been less than a month ago? It seemed like a thousand years had passed since the events in Jerusalem. His life had taken a turn for the better when he met Mary and a turn for the worse when he met the Bachiyr, Theron.
Not even a month, he thought. Yet his clothes were as ragged and threadbare as if he'd been laid to rest years ago. Upon his death in Jerusalem, the Legion had buried him in uniform. On his third night as a Bachiyr, he had acquired clothing from one of the Judean peasants. The man had not willingly given up his clothes, of course. He'd been one of Taras' first victims, just before some of the people in the city began to glow in that strange, unearthly manner. Taras had no idea what the glow meant, but it made him uncomfortable enough to leave those people alone.
Not everyone glowed, of course. Here in Antioch, very few people did, especially in his current location. But it seemed like every evening Taras would see at least three or four of them walking through the city. Even now, one such man walked through the middle of the street, keeping his distance from the brothels and taverns, and talking to a young boy who did not glow. Taras had seen this before, too. Sometimes the other person would begin to glow, as well, and sometimes not.
He thought it had something to do with the dead rabbi, Jesus.
Thinking about that---and his part in the man's execution---caused the rumblings of his hunger to fade further, leaving only a queasy feeling deep in the pit of his stomach. He'd killed so many people already, and none of them had deserved to die. But he was weak. He couldn't help it. Yet somehow he had managed to avoid killing for the last twenty nights, ever since he left the Mount of Olives and Mary's tomb for the last time. Every time he found a new victim, he would think of Mary, and he would lose his stomach for the kill and walk away. He knew it was the right thing to do, but the lack of blood was taking a heavy toll on his mind and body.
Taras turned around and walked down the alley, using the wall for support. If anyone had seen him, they would probably take him for a drunk, as well. His unsteady steps faltered at every turn, and more than once he had to pick himself up off the dusty, dirty street and force his body to keep moving.
Twenty nights without blood. How much longer could he last? Perhaps it would soon be irrelevant. Maybe he would fall to the street and lie there until the sun burned his corpse to ash, mingling it with the dirt of Antioch's busy streets. Maybe that would be better. Maybe that's what Jesus had meant when he said Taras had options.
An hour later Taras reached his door, a creaky, rotting piece of oak that led into a crumbling, abandoned dwelling on the outskirts of the city. He had discovered this long abandoned section of Antioch after leaving the tavern district the night before, and found it to be a perfect place to wait out the day away from human eyes. Here, all the buildings stood in a similar state of disrepair, and his dwelling looked no different than the many others that lay around the place falling into ruin. With one exception.
His had a cellar dug into the earth. A stout oak door, unweathered by the elements because it remained inside four walls and under the tattered roof, led down into the cool, dark place where Taras slept away the daylight. It wasn't perfect. Other homeless people wandered this area of the city, as well. Sooner or later, a vagrant or brigand would find his hole and try to use it for his own purpose.
He dreaded that day. If they came while he slept, they would probably cut his throat in the night and steal his few possessions. If they came while he was awake, he would have a difficult time defending himself against them in his weakened state. They probably would not know how to kill him, but they would make his life uncomfortable.
More uncomfortable, he corrected, as the hunger in his belly rumbled, echoing off the walls of his cellar home.
Taras sat in the corner, waiting for the sun to rise, and reflected on his status. Once proud and strong, he had served Rome from the shadows, making certain her enemies could not rise against her. Now here he was, huddled and afraid in a dark cellar, helpless and hungry while starvation slowly claimed his life.
What would Mary think if she saw him now? Would she be ashamed? Would she hate him for what he had become? Or worse, would she pity him?
He shook the thought from his head and closed his eyes, waiting for sleep.
\*\*\*
The next evening, Taras woke to find he was not alone in his hole. During the day, a beggar had found his hiding place and fallen asleep a few short paces from the slumbering Bachiyr. For a wonder, the newcomer hadn't tried to kill him. The man's breathing was even and deep, the pattern of a man deep into his cups. The occasional snore crossed his lips, and every once in a while he would belch in his sleep. It was this very noise which had woken Taras to begin with, although the night would have done so soon enough, anyway.
Taras would never have a better chance. They were isolated, hidden, and in a part of the city where a man might scream for hours and no one would come to investigate. If he was going to feed, now was the time.
He crept over to the sleeping drunk, wrinkling his nose at the smell of old wine. As the hunger swept through his entire body, his canines seemed to extend of their own free will. Taras crouched over the prone beggar. The man's clothes were tattered and dirty, much like Taras's own. His matted, filthy hair hung over his face in stringy brown tangles. He lay barefoot in the dirt, his left hand clasped around an empty jug. It would be an easy kill.
Except...
There is always a choice.
Jesus' words came back to haunt him. Gods help him, his hunger was driving him insane. It felt like a white-hot knife in his abdomen, and the one thing that would ease the pain lay helpless at his feet, and still he heard the words of a dead rabbi who may or may not have been completely mad. Worse yet, he knew he would heed those words regardless of his pain. It went against every instinct of self-preservation he had, yet he could not deny that something had tempered his violence since that night outside Mary's tomb.
He did have a choice. His hunger might make it a difficult choice, but the decision was still his to make. If he killed the beggar, he would be doing it of his own free will, and thus he would have to accept the responsibility of that. Could he do it?
What would Mary say?
Cursing, he turned his back on the prone beggar. Taras had killed men in their sleep before. As an assassin for Rome he had done many things he preferred to forget, but this was different. Before, he had done his duty for Rome and her cause. Now, it would just be murder. Taras was many things, but he'd never considered himself a murderer. Even the many people he killed the night he fled Jerusalem had been because of a malady of the mind.
Sooner or later that malady would return, and he would be unable to stop himself.
Maybe he should find a nice, comfortable perch in the city and wait for the sunrise. It would be nice to see the beautiful orange glow of the morning sun again, even if it would only be for a very short time. His entire world had become a constant array of grays and blacks. Torchlight only brought the faintest whiff of color to his eyes, and the acrid smell of pitch always accompanied it. But true sunlight... he hadn't thought he could miss it so much.
Taras gathered up his meager belongings and stumbled up the stairs to the cellar door. He would have to find a new place to wait out the day. Just because the beggar hadn't tried to kill him this time didn't mean that would be the case every time. In addition, the man might have friends accompany him someday, and Taras did not like the idea of being surrounded by strangers while he slept on, helpless.
He plodded through the streets of Antioch's forgotten houses, his once tall and strong frame bent halfway to the ground in hunger and pain. His mind battled back and forth between wanting to go back to feed on the beggar and looking for a place to lay down and die. So far the latter held the edge. Would he see Mary again if he died? Was there room for someone like him in the afterlife?
Probably not.
The faces. They came to him sometimes during the day. Not in dreams, Taras had not dreamed since he died, but in his memories as he lay waiting for sleep to claim him. He could still remember the faces of the people he had killed in Jerusalem: the two guards at the Damascus Gate, the woman and her son on the road to the city, the potter and his family... all leapt into his mind in vivid detail each time he laid down at dawn.
His kills for Rome had never haunted him this way.
Whatever gods had watched over him in life would have no love for him now. Taras stepped over another drunk, this one snoring in the street, and walked on. The hunger gnawed at his insides like a rat trying to escape a burning box. His mind screamed at him to go back and feed on the drunk, that no one was nearby to see. Still he walked on, his feet dragging on the ground because he no longer had the strength to lift them.
His feet carried him not deeper into the city, but farther out, close to the city's edge. He soon found himself wandering the roads leading away from the city. Here, the twisted silhouettes of acacias blended with the curvy outlines of a pair of wild olive trees. Most such trees near the city belonged to orchards, where wealthy landowners hired men or bought slaves to harvest their fruit for oil and other uses. To see a wild olive tree was extremely rare, and he stopped a moment to take in the sight. The smells of the olives ripening on their branches came to him, and he remembered their taste on his tongue. Mary had loved olives.
He stepped to the nearest tree and reached his fingers up to the tart, round little fruits. They would be ready soon. Perhaps someone from the city would come and lay claim to them, or already had. He snapped off a branch and brought it to his face, inhaling the aroma. In many countries, the olive branch was a symbol of peace. Maybe the tree was a sign. Maybe he should make his peace. Maybe it was time to die, after all.
He clutched the branch to his chest and resumed his walk down the road. At least now he knew what he was looking for. A clearing. Someplace to sit and wait for the sun. In the morning, he would eat an olive and watch the sunrise over the eastern horizon.
Once, shortly after he began to court Mary, he gave her a bag of olives as a gift. She had clapped her hands happily and eaten several right away. She offered him a few but he declined, preferring the look on her face to his own indulgence. When she smiled at him the sunlight had seemed to reflect from her face, filling him with warmth and love. That was all he'd ever needed. Later that night they shared their first kiss, and Mary's breath had tasted like olives. He wanted to have that taste in his mouth when he died.
He walked along the path for almost an hour before he came to a suitable place. A wide clearing in the trees just off the path, big enough that the sun would shine through it early, but not so big as to be someone's field. As an added bonus, in the center of the clearing lay a large boulder against which he could rest his tired, angry back.
Perfect.
Taras smiled as he stumbled through the high grass and into the place that would see his death. The olive branch clamped firmly in hand, he set his back against the boulder and waited, hoping the weather would hold clear on the morrow and allow the sun its full force. He hoped it would not be a slow, painful death, even though he deserved no less. He hoped the fire would cleanse him of his misdeeds and allow him a place in the afterlife. He hoped to find the gods in a forgiving mood tomorrow morning.
But most of all he hoped to see his beloved Mary again.
\*\*\*
He sat against the rock for over an hour, living in his memories and occasionally humming a bawdy drinking song from the white lands to the north. The memory made him feel cold, and the thin garments he'd stolen from the peasant in Jerusalem could not keep him warm, because his body no longer cast any heat of its own. I am a reptile, he thought. A lizard in the house of men, needing the warmth of their fires to keep me alive.
Their fires or their blood, but he was only willing to take one.
A sound to his right caught his ear, and he turned his head to face it. The brush rustled, something large was coming through the trees toward his clearing. He reached for his sword out of instinct, forgetting that he no longer carried one. His claws had become his primary weapon, but as he sat and waited for the thing to make itself seen, he had to wonder why he bothered. So what if it killed him? What difference did it make? A wolf, a bear, or the sun. They all amounted to the same thing. He left his claws in check, waiting for whatever the gods had sent him.
Still, he was not prepared for what he saw.
Mary walked out of the darkness on the edge of the clearing, a huge smile on her face as she showed off the ring he'd bought her. A sparkle shone from the depths of her deep brown eyes. Her hair was black as the night sky, and her smile reflected the moonlight, magnifying it and casting the clearing in a soft, welcome glow. Her blue dress fit so tight he did not need to use his imagination to picture what lay beneath. She looked just like he remembered her, and in her hands she carried a single red flower.
"For you, my love," she said, holding the bloom out to him.
It was the flower that showed him the truth.
"You are not here," he said, reaching for the stem even though he knew it wasn't real.
The vision of Mary frowned. "What do you mean, my love?" she asked. "I am right here. Where else would I be but with you?"
"You are in Jerusalem, where I left you. I placed this flower by your tomb."
Her eyes drooped. The smile faltered, and Taras' heart broke as a tear spilled from the corner of her eye. "It's not true, my love. I'm here. Touch me."
Taras' hand reached the stem of the red flower, and closed on empty air.
Mary was gone.
His rational mind told him she was never really there at all, yet a small part of him wished she would come back, even if it wasn't real.
Taras laid his head on his hand and tried to cry, but tears would not come. Their cleansing power was another thing denied him by his condition, along with true sleep and rest. The sunrise could not come soon enough.
The next time he heard rustling from the brush, he ignored it.
Right up until the moment the club cracked him on the back of the head.
\*\*\*
When he awoke, his hands were tied behind his back, and he was propped against a tree. His ankles were lashed together by a length of twine tied to a stake in the ground. Clearly, someone did not want him to go anywhere. But who?
He lifted his head and looked around. He was in another clearing, albeit a smaller one, surrounded on all sides by trees and scrub brush. The ground under him was littered with pine needles and dried leaves, but no grass. In the center of the clearing a small fire crackled and spit. Three hunched figures sat around the fire, casting long, dancing shadows into the night. They wore coarse, dark tunics and black breeches with soft leather boots on their feet. Despite their clothing, they huddled around the fire to ward off the night's unusual chill. Taras could not see their faces, but their conversation drifted to him over the noise of the woods.
"Not a damn coin on him," said one. "We should have just cut him and left him."
"Aye," said another. "Poor as the desert is dry. Who'd pay a ransom for the likes of him?"
"Did you see his hair?" said the last of the three. "He's not from Greece, or Judea either."
"No," said the first man. "If he has any family, they are far away."
"Why did we keep him, then?" asked the second man.
"I'll tell you why," said a new voice. Taras turned his head and saw a large, heavily muscled man step into the clearing, dragging a woman behind him. Like Taras, her wrists and legs were tied with twine, but she had the additional misfortune of having a gag in her mouth. "Because there is someone who will pay us for him," the big man continued. "Balize."
All three of the men at the fire cursed, and one of them spat in the dirt.
"Balize?" he said. "You would trade with that creature, Grummit?"
"She will pay good coin for him, Hio," Grummit replied. "The woman, too. At least a gold for the two of them, perhaps more."
"If she doesn't kill you first, you mean," said another of the three.
Grummit dragged the woman over to where Taras sat, then proceeded to tie the rope around her legs to a spike in the earth, similar to the one with which they had tethered Taras. The bandit finally looked up and noticed his captive was awake.
"He lives," Grummit said. "We wondered whether you would wake again, northman. You were so weak when we found you."
Weak. Taras was weak. And hungry. And these four men, having kidnapped him and tied him to the ground, smelled of steel, sweat, and blood. He found himself looking at Grummit's neck; at the pulsing rhythm of the jugular vein as blood pumped through it. The image made his belly rumble. The sound rolled through the clearing, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Grummit laughed. "Hungry are you? Don't worry, northman. You won't be hungry long."
He turned his back on Taras while Hio and the other two bandits laughed.
"What about the girl?" Hio asked.
"What about her? She will go to Balize, as well."
"Seems a waste," Hio said, staring at the woman's torn clothing and flashing a crooked smile. "Balize won't have near as much fun with her as I would."
The two men by the fire chuckled, and Grummit turned to take another look at the woman. The look in his eyes changed from greed to hunger, and his hand went to his crotch. "Balize probably wouldn't care if we played with her first. Especially if she didn't find out."
"Yes," Hio said. "What difference would it make to her, anyway? The Bachiyr will only be interested in her blood." With that, he stood up and fingered his belt. The other two men rose to their feet behind him, smiling and reaching for their belts, as well.
Bachiyr? They planned to feed him to another Bachiyr? The men didn't realize he was Bachiyr, but this Balize surely would. She might even recognize him if word of his existence had spread. If so, she wouldn't kill him, most likely. Rather, she would probably turn him over to the one called Ramah.
Killing him would probably be kinder.
"I'm first," Grummit said. The look Hio flashed his leader was one of pure contempt, but he said nothing.
Taras turned to look at the woman, whose eyes grew wide as Grummit approached. The gag in her mouth muffled her screams, and the rope around her ankles held her in place. She backed as far away from the lumbering bandit as she could before it snapped taut, then she could go no farther. Her sobs echoed through the clearing, generating another round of laughter from their captors.
Grummit passed Taras on his way to the woman. He looked down and winked. "Sorry, friend," he said. "You're not invited." Then he kicked Taras in the face.
Taras' head snapped back. The pain was accompanied by the sound of crunching bone as his nose gave way to Grummit's boot. Blood leaked out of his nose as the bandit walked by, still smiling.
The smell of his blood was almost more than he could bear. It called to Taras like a mother calling her child home for dinner. His belly rumbled again, this time sounding like an angry wolf, and the pain curled him into a ball as Hio and the other two men shuffled by.
Taras watched their backs as they gathered around the woman, and realized that no one was watching him. They were preoccupied with fondling her breasts and talking loudly about the many things they planned to do to her. He tested his bonds. They were strong. He would be able to break them easily if he was at his full strength, but he was weak. Too weak to run from another Bachiyr. Probably too weak to fight, as well.
Grummit dropped his pants and knelt in the clearing by the woman's ankles while Hio and one of the other men grabbed her legs and pulled them apart. She screamed again, and Taras saw her face. Her skin was dark, but not brown like the men from south of Egypt. She had the same coloring as Mary. Dark hair, brown eyes. A little thinner and smaller through the chest, but still lovely in spite of the gag and the look of raw fear on her face.
Was that the look Mary wore before Theron tore her apart?
Grummit climbed on top of her with a grunt, and the woman screamed through her gag. But it was not her voice Taras heard, it was Mary's. Mary's voice screamed for help. Mary's face twisted in fear. Mary's legs pried open by brigands. His beloved Mary, lying in her shredded blue dress as four men had their way with her.
Suddenly his hands were free, cut into tatters by claws that had appeared of their own volition. He cut through the twine around his ankles and turned toward the men. They stood a few paces away, huddled around the woman, who cried and screamed through her gag. Taras' vision blurred, and the entire clearing faded. As he stepped forward, it seemed everyone else moved much slower than they should. Voices became deep and slurred beyond understanding, and the insects that buzzed madly through the clearing now floated gently between Taras and his victims, their wings beating a slow but steady rhythm in the air. The woman's scream droned on, a slow, scared monotone as he watched his hands stretch toward the closest bandit.
His clawed fingers shot forward, tearing through the flesh of the man's back. Taras wrapped his fingers around his victim's spine and yanked backward. The bones popped free of their moorings and ripped through his skin. Blood sprayed everywhere, and some of the droplets landed on Taras' face. The smell drove him forward while the man screamed, then fell silent. By the time he hit the ground he was dead. Taras, meanwhile, had moved on to the next man.
The second bandit had just started to turn around when Taras plunged his claws into the man's throat, twisting his hand and rending skin and tendons. He wrapped his fingers around the man's Adam's apple and pulled it free. The flesh ripped apart, sending more blood into the air. The man gurgled, and then he fell to the ground to lie in a growing pool of blood. His right hand clutched his throat, while his left hand still fingered his belt.
Next was Hio, who moved a bit faster than his two comrades. He reached for the sword at his belt and had it halfway out of its sheath by the time Taras grabbed hold of his head. The Bachiyr placed one hand on either side of Hio's head and began to squeeze. Hio screamed and let go of his sword, grabbing Taras' wrists and trying to pull them apart. But the human bandit was no match for the Bachiyr's strength, and soon his eyes rolled up into his head and his arms fell limp at his sides.
The sound Hio's head made as the sides caved in reminded Taras of breaking a clay pot filled with moist bread dough. First came a sharp crack, then a liquid plop as his hands tore through the soft material beneath.
The smell of blood hung in the air like a red mist. Taras inhaled great clouds of it, sending his hyper-developed senses into a frenzy. He pulled his hands from Hio's shattered skull and turned to find Grummit standing over Mary with his sword hanging over her neck. The bandit was still naked from the waist down, and his erection pointed toward the sky as he poked the sword into the soft flesh of her throat.
"Whatever you are," Grummit said, his voice wavering, "don't take another step forward or I'll cut off her head."
Mary stared at Taras' hands, her fear worse now than when Grummit had been about to rape her. Her heart thumped madly in her chest, buzzing like a hummingbird. Could she truly be more afraid of Taras than Grummit? A thin trickle of blood leaked from a cut on her neck, caused by the point of the bandit's sword, but Taras barely noticed. His attention was focused on the look of fear in Mary's eyes.
Why would Mary be afraid of him?
In his confusion, the vision faded, and he saw the truth. The woman on the ground was not Mary, and never had been. Mary was dead, killed by Theron. This woman was a stranger. She meant nothing to him. He should just walk away now while he had the chance.
But he didn't.
Perhaps it was the smell of blood combined with his hunger, or maybe it was the thought of what Mary would think of him if he left the helpless woman to die, or it could have been the words of a dead Jewish rabbi, but something kept him rooted to the spot.
There is always a choice.
Taras took a step forward.
"Stop," Grummit commanded.
Taras shook his head. "You are already dead, Grummit," he said. "Release the woman and I will kill you quick. Kill her and I will make your death very slow. Choose."
Grummit looked from Taras to the woman, then to the bodies of his three fallen comrades, killed in less time than it takes to blink. His sword arm wavered. For a moment Taras thought he would run, but then he looked back to Taras and screamed. He pulled his sword away from the woman's neck and charged.
Grummit was a brute; vile and mean, but he was little more than a strong farmer with a sword. Taras had spent years training in the Roman Legion and had the added benefit of his enhanced reflexes and strength. As the bandit charged him, his heavy sword held over his head in a clumsy overhand chop, Taras ducked down and twisted to the side, jabbing out with his right hand and raking his claws across Grummit's belly. They tore four long gashes into the man's tender flesh, and several slimy ropes of intestine spilled out to hang, dripping, from Grummit's abdomen. The bandit screamed in pain and tried to come around with his sword, but his angle was off and Taras swatted the blade away with his left hand.
The blood! It rolled down Taras' arm from the gaping wound in Grummit's gut. The scent of it pulled at his mind, tearing into it like an angry badger. His strength flagged as his sudden surge of speed took its toll, and Taras felt himself sinking back into weakness. Next to him, Grummit fell to the clearing floor, sobbing and grabbing as much of his innards as he could and trying to hold them inside.
Taras looked toward the woman, who now lay still. Her heartbeat had slowed to normal, as had her breathing, leaving him to guess that she had fainted. A thin trickle of blood ran down her neck.
Grummit had done that to her.
Taras stepped over to where the man lay in the dirt and leaves. He looked down at the writhing, squirming figure and felt no pity. The man deserved to die. Taras had meted out his death sentence already; the wound in his belly surely would kill him unless some opportunistic predator smelled the blood and did it first.
A predator like Taras.
At last, he had his answer.
He reached down and grabbed Grummit by the shoulder, then hauled him to his feet. Grummit swatted weakly at him, but the man's strength had left him, and the blow rolled off Taras' shoulder as if it were a child's. Taras spun the man around and embraced him from behind, plunging his teeth into the exposed throat.
The blood poured into his mouth, and Taras sighed as he swallowed mouthful after mouthful. He had been as a man wandering through the desert, his skin ablaze with the sun's heat and his body dry as ancient bones. Now he had found an oasis, and he drank until he could not drink any more.
Strength surged through his body like lightning, feeding his muscles and his foggy mind. Until then, he hadn't realized just how weak he had become. But as power vibrated through his body, humming with energy and vitality, his senses exploded.
The scent of the clearing poured into his nostrils like a great waterfall: the green of the tree leaves and the brown of the earthen floor. The sweat of the woman's body, and the sour odor of urine from one of his victims. Even the smell of Grummit's steel, tainted with old blood, found its way into his nose.
A cacophony of noise surrounded him. Birds fluttering their wings, snakes slithering across the ground, mice bounding through the brush, and many more. He heard every blade of grass that bent to the wind, every leaf that fluttered to the ground, and every insect that buzzed through the trees. He heard them all so well he could almost see them with his ears.
As the blood poured into him, the woods around him seemed to explode into light and detail. A squirrel chattered in a tree on one side of the clearing, and Taras saw it so clearly he could have counted the hairs of its tail. On the other side, a bat fluttered through the trees, and Taras saw the gnats that it chased. The moonlight bathed the whole area in a soft, surreal glow, and no shadow was too deep for his eyes to penetrate..
This was the feeling he'd had in Jerusalem after Mary's death. This was the euphoric sensation that caused him to run down and kill dozens of people that night. Taras was more than just a predator, he was the predator. The top hunter in a world filled with prey.
He couldn't stop. He didn't want to.
He drank from Grummit until the man stopped moving, then he cast about for another victim. Not far away, the bandit Taras had stabbed through the neck writhed feebly on the ground. Without Taras' interference the man would die soon enough, but he wasn't dead yet. Taras leapt on him, placing his mouth over a font of spurting blood, and clamped his lips tight over the wound. In less than a minute, he had drunk a second person dry.
The only living person left in the clearing was the woman. Taras walked over to where she lay and watched the subtle rising and falling of the artery in her neck. She was already unconscious. It would be easy. He leaned over her, his hunger raging through his body. The roar in his ears drowned out most everything but her heartbeat, which still came in a slow, steady thump. He leaned in and put his mouth on her throat.
The woman spasmed, and started to scream through her gag again. Taras pulled back and saw she had regained consciousness. Her eyes went wide as she looked at his face, and Taras couldn't help but notice the shade of her irises. They were a deep brown, like a chestnut.
Like Mary's.
Taras stumbled back, falling over backwards in his haste to get himself away from the woman. Gods, he almost killed her! He'd been so close. He would have to be careful. Men like Hio and Grummit deserved to die, but she was a victim. An innocent. She did not deserve this.
Mary would have wanted him to help her.
She continued to scream her muffled scream, and Taras rose to his feet. He walked back over to her and grasped the spike in the ground. It came up easily, and he tossed it to the side. Then he pointed to the knife in Hio's hand.
"It's sharp," he said. "Use it on your ropes."
With that, he turned away from her. He wanted to stay and make sure she made it to safety, but the sound of her blood pulsing through her veins called to him, and he forced himself to keep walking. If he stopped again, he would kill her. He wouldn't be able to stop himself.
He passed Grummit's body and looked down. The bandit's flesh looked sunken and dry, as though he'd been dead for months instead of minutes. Taras tried to feel remorse for killing him, but it wouldn't come. Grummit had been a vile man bent on doing vile things. So were Hio and the other two bandits. In Jerusalem, in the days immediately following his death, Taras had killed without malice, pity, or reason. But this was different. Taras had simply meted out justice. That he had been able to satiate his gnawing hunger in the process was a bonus.
Taras stopped in his tracks, turning an idea over in his mind.
Maybe he didn't have to die, after all.
Men like Grummit and Hio were everywhere. Antioch was full of them. So was the rest of the world. He knew; he had traveled through most of it in service to Rome. People everywhere murdered for money, or fun, or no reason at all. Men found sport with unwilling women, often beating or killing them in the process. Robbers would steal the bread from an honest man's table. Powerful men and women stepped on the throats of the innocent. And there was worse. Much worse. All of them deserved justice, and Taras could deliver it to them.
He walked out of the clearing and into the woods, headed back to Antioch with a newfound strength and skip in his step. He had finally figured out what the gods wanted of him.
Maybe when the time came for him to die, he would get to see Mary again, after all.
Athens, 33 A.D.
Home. Theron stepped out from the deep shadow between the two buildings, wiped the blood from his chin with his sleeve, and looked around the city. He took in the many buildings and monuments, most of which had changed dramatically in the 900 years since he'd left. Statues of heroes and gods were everywhere. The Greeks loved statues, they dotted the city like flies on a corpse, but few of them remained from when he lived here last.
Acropolis still stood in the center of the city---Athens had literally grown up around the great mound of stone---but the structures atop it were different. Gone was the ancient temple of Athena from Theron's youth, replaced by a building of white stone columns and a triangular roof the locals called the Parthenon. Supposedly, it was intended to honor all the gods, but from what he'd been able to gather, the building was now a treasury of some sort.
Behind him, Theron's latest victim lay unmoving, hidden deep in the shadows as rats and other vermin tended to what remained of her body. The last of her blood spotted his sleeve, and the coins from her purse now mingled with his own.
Athens was much larger than he remembered. In his years with the Bachiyr and as an agent of the Council of Thirteen, he had never once come back to his homeland. He only returned now because he could not think of anyplace else to go. He had dwelt within the walls of the Halls of the Bachiyr for nearly a millennium, and before that he'd spent most of his life in Athens, having come with his family from Macedonia as a boy.
Theron had died here, killed by a Bachiyr woman named Adonia before he had reached his twenty fifth year. The two were lovers, or so he thought, right up until the moment she sank her teeth into his neck. His father buried him in the northern section of the city, under the shadow of Acropolis so that Athena could watch over his grave. Theron had awakened underground with a coin in his mouth, and started to scream.
Adonia had been waiting, and she dug through the dirt with her hands until he was free. When she saw him she smiled, and Theron saw her fangs for the first time. In life, he had loved her fiercely, following the scent of her jasmine perfume anywhere she led him. As he woke to learn her true nature, he felt no fear. If anything, the sight made him want the raven-haired beauty even more. He took her hand and rose from his grave, spitting out the coin his father had left in his mouth for the ferryman.
Living as a vampire had taken some getting used to, but even then Athens was a large and sprawling metropolis, with plenty of people on which to feed. He and Adonia ruled the night, fearing nothing, and feeding as they pleased. For a young Bachiyr, it was an idyllic life. The pair indulged in the pleasures of the blood and of the body whenever possible, with no worries of disease or aging to get in the way. Then an ancient Bachiyr named Ephraim appeared in the city and invited Theron to join him in the Halls.
That was nine hundred years ago. Despite his enviable lifestyle, Theron had gone to the Halls gladly, leaving Adonia behind to stew in her jealousy. He had traveled the world at the service of the Council, visiting places that he would never have dreamed existed as a boy in provincial Macedonia. There was a whole other world across the ocean that no one knew existed, its knowledge a secret known only by those who lived there and the Bachiyr. He had seen wonders few men could dream of and been party to events that mystified the world, all in service to the Council.
And now he was back in Athens, and it wasn't even home anymore.
"That damn rabbi," he growled under his breath. "This is all his fault. He should have just died and been done with it."
He looked at his right hand, at the black flesh there. He'd burned it when he struck Jesus in the Roman dungeon in Jerusalem. In the two months since, the charred flesh had healed, and the hand did not pain him anymore, but the black coloring remained behind. He'd tried forcing blood into it, reciting a healing psalm over it, and had even rubbed a blood-based salve onto the skin, but nothing worked. None of the healing methods he knew of could restore the color to his flesh. It remained black as freshly burned skin, a permanent reminder of his failure, and an easy method by which any other Bachiyr could identify him.
After his humiliating mistake in Jerusalem, Theron had left the city, headed east to avoid the Council's minions. On the road he encountered several followers of the dead rabbi, and had killed every one of them. It wasn't easy. Many of them possessed the glow which marked them as faithful servants of God, but he forced himself to operate past the discomfort and feed anyway. It was worth the pain to see the looks on their faces when they realized their faith was no match for his anger, and the fear added to the heady spice of their blood.
The farther he traveled from Jerusalem, however, the fewer such people he met. Now, in Athens, no one possessed the glow. It was as it had been before Ephraim's betrayal, with hordes of potential victims everywhere he looked. As he watched the ordinary people pass in and out of his view, he could almost believe Jerusalem had never happened.
Until he looked at his hand.
He wandered the streets of Athens for several hours. In the older sections of the city, the street patterns remained mostly as he remembered them, though the buildings had changed. When he reached the newer sections of the city, he had to pay close attention to where he walked, lest he be unable to find his way back to the port and the ship that carried him here. In the belly of the boat was a sturdy room, reinforced with steel and completely cut off from sunlight. Until he could find a new dwelling, that would be his sanctum.
The sheer volume of people bustling by on their way to one errand or another, even at this late hour, was astonishing. Merchants carried their wares to storage, orators spoke on corners, hoping for coin from those seeking enlightenment, and of course, ratty beggars and gaily-dressed prostitutes were everywhere. This was good news for Theron, since they would be the largest portion of his diet during his stay. By necessity he would have to be careful to only feed on those people whom no one would miss. Beggars and prostitutes were at the top of that list. He would stick to them for his meals.
Unless he came across one of the rabbi's followers. He had seen them on his way to Athens in other cities and villages, preaching to the assembled people of the virtues of their faith. Theron killed them at every opportunity, but how many more were there? Were teams of men and women even now spreading to other towns all over the known world, preaching the word of a single dead rabbi?
Surely not. And yet it was possible. If so, it meant a long journey for Theron, who had made it his mission to kill everyone who called himself a follower of Jesus of Nazareth.
One thing at a time, he reminded himself. First he needed a place to stay. The ship's hold was serviceable, but not ideal. In any case, they would leave port in a few days, and he intended to remain behind. In a city the size of Athens, it should be easy for him to blend in and disappear. At least for a while. Long enough to figure out what to do next, anyway.
He wandered the streets until shortly before sunrise, memorizing the layout of the city and planning his next move. When the eastern sky began to lighten with the coming sun, he started back for the docks. In eight hours of walking he had not even covered one quarter of the city, but he had found several locations that could be useful. In a city as old as Athens, there were many secrets that few knew about. Theron, having lived in the city nearly a thousand years before, knew several of which no one living today would have any knowledge.
One of those secrets was a tunnel system built even before Theron was born. They had initially been designed as an escape, and were used as such during the invasion of Persian emperor Xerxes. Most of them had crumbled or been covered over by new structures in the centuries since. But the stone under Athens was strong, and a handful of the tunnels still existed in dark and forgotten corners of the city. If he could secure one such tunnel against intrusion, he would have his base of operations.
It would have to wait until tomorrow night, however, as he was running out of time before sunrise. The captain of the boat said he would remain at port for three days. That would give Theron enough time to secure one of the tunnels. But he would need blood, and plenty of it, to work the psalms. Tomorrow night he would have to feed again.
On his way back to the boat, he felt eyes on his back. He turned to look behind him, scanning the shadows on the city and looking for anything---or anyone---out of the ordinary. His fingers itched as his claws begged for release, but the streets behind him revealed nothing out of place. A handful of people milled about on one errand or another, but none of them paid the slightest bit of attention to him. Nonetheless, he stood his ground for several minutes, watching the people as they went about their business. He kept a mental tally of where each person was and where they were headed. When he was sure that all the people on the street had moved on, he turned his back and resumed walking. Not normally prone to imagining things, he chalked it up to paranoia about the Council and continued on his way back to the ship.
The whole way there, he had the nagging feeling that he'd missed something.
\*\*\*
Theron woke to fire.
All around him, the ship's cargo burned. Flames crackled through the hold, feeding on the wood and filling the air with smoke. Several burned and blackened bodies lay on the floor, tongues of fire licking their way across their charred skin. Had Theron needed to breathe, he would have been dead already.
He waved his hand in front of his face, trying to clear some of the smoke so he could see deeper into the ship, but it was no use. The smoke created a thick barrier even to his keen eyes, and he was forced to wander blindly through the flames, dodging aside as burning timbers dropped from above.
The heat was intense. His skin shriveled and cracked, revealing the muscles beneath just long enough for them to turn black. He staggered through the hold, trying to focus his mind beyond the pain and find a way out. But the flames were everywhere, and the smoke made it impossible to know where he was. Was he facing the ladder to the deck? Or was he walking into the bilge room? The sickly-sweet smell of burning flesh hung in the air with the smoke.
He walked on, sometimes forced to step through a wall of fire, determined to find a way out. He hadn't escaped from Ramah in Jerusalem just to die on a damned boat two months later. Finally, he reached the inside wall of the ship. Flames danced at his back, and his clothes had caught fire again. He patted them out and looked down the length of the ship's inner hull for any kind of opening. All down his line of sight the wood was whole and smooth, undamaged by the flames that even now moved to hem him into a corner.
Theron turned, hoping to cut back across the rolling hold and look for another way, but the fire had closed his exit. Above him, the timbers supporting the deck crackled and charred in the heat. As he watched, a large beam snapped in half and fell to the floor, sending up a glowing cloud of sparks. there would be no exit that way.
He turned back to the hull. How thick was the wood? He had no idea, but he didn't have much choice. Theron screamed as his claws ripped the burned flesh of his fingertips, but he grew them just the same. Then he set to work clawing at the wood. Splinters fell away as he gouged tracks in the hull of the ship, but after an agonizing few minutes, he knew it was hopeless. He was simply not making enough progress.
Theron forced some of his blood into his hands, using their energy to heal the blisters. Somehow, he resisted the urge to spend more blood healing his bubbled skin. There would be time enough to take care of all his wounds if he made it out alive. He used more blood on the muscles of his upper body, enhancing his strength, endurance, and speed. Satisfied that he had done everything he could, he began to pound on the wood of the ship with his fists, hoping to break through the hull.
The fire reached his feet, burning through his boots and licking at his ankles. Still he pounded, even as the skin of his knuckles tore and the flesh turned to a red, pasty mush. He focused his energies on keeping the bones in his hand whole. If they broke, he would have no chance of escape at all.
A satisfying crack sounded under his hand, and a thin jet of seawater shot into the hold. It turned to steam before it hit the floor, but it was a start. Theron punched the wall again, and another crack sounded through the hold. By now his fists were little more than bloody masses of pulp, and the pain of the fire at his feet made him dizzy.
His next blow went through the wood and into the water beyond, cooling the torn skin of his left hand and sending a large stream of water into his chest. The force of the water staggered him backward into the flames, but the fire sizzled and went out as the water poured over it. Theron forced his way back to the hull and punched it again, widening the hole and letting in more water. He did this several more times until the hole in the ship's belly was big enough to accommodate his form. It would be his escape when the water pressure inside the hull evened out, but for now the cool fluid rolled through too fast for him to escape.
Theron relaxed and allowed the water to soothe his blistered skin. As the hold flooded, the fires went out, and a heavy cloud of steam replaced the smoke. He took advantage of the respite to heal his skin, which used up a great deal of his stored blood. He would need to feed again tonight to replace it, which might be a bit of a problem.
He didn't believe for a second that the fire was an accident. He'd missed something the night before when he stopped and checked his surroundings. Someone had been watching him, and he had led that someone right to his hiding place. It couldn't have been Ramah. The Blood Letter would never resort to fire. Though deadly even to his kind, fire was notoriously unreliable as a means of assassination. Who did that leave? Taras, perhaps? The tall Roman legionary he'd inadvertently turned in Jerusalem? Theron rejected the idea almost as soon as he thought it. Taras was an experienced assassin in his own right. He would have tried something a little less dicey.
Whoever it was, they obviously knew he was here. Which meant they were one step ahead of him. Theron would have to catch up, and soon.
\*\*\*
He broke the surface of the water about an hour later. It had taken that long for the hull to flood enough to bring the ship down. Once the hull filled, he was able to swim through the hole he created. The water in front of him sparkled with bright orange points of light. Theron turned around and watched as the ship continued to burn even as it sank. The flames had reached the main mast and enveloped the deck from stem to stern, reaching up toward the sky and spewing sparks in every direction.
On the docks, men yelled as they ran back and forth. Several of them pointed at the burning wreckage and moaned about their lost cargo while others, mostly women, wailed about their husbands or family that were still on board. A few thought to fight the fire with buckets, but the ship was too far out and too engulfed for such a tactic to be effective. There was nothing anyone could do. The ship was lost. Two men cut the ropes securing the ship so it would not set the docks alight and the ship drifted out into the harbor, sliding lower into the water as it went. As the water reached the flames, it hissed and sent up clouds of steam, which mingled with the smoke and the sparks. Then the ship was gone, and only the tip of the mast could be seen, burning like a candle on the sea.
A few other men swam in the water around him, and he recognized the faces of some of the crewmen. He did not see the captain, which meant he had either not been aboard when the fire started or he had died on the ship. It also meant he would not have to pay him, not that he could. All his belongings, including most of the gold he brought with him from Jerusalem, now lay at the bottom of the harbor.
The money did not worry him. He still had enough in his purse to meet his needs, and he could replace what he lost easily enough with a few choice victims. In any case he had little need to purchase anything. Blood was free, and he could scrounge clothing from those upon whom he fed. He had lived quite well in Athens by using such methods nine hundred years ago, and he could do it again.
More troublesome was the fact that whoever had set the fire was most certainly watching the ship and the water around it, probably checking to see if he survived. Had they spotted him already? He hoped not. Just in case, he sank under the surface and began to swim for shore. He was able to stay hidden the entire way because he did not need to come up for air, so he chose a long route that would bring him up a few hundred yards away from the docks. If his adversary was watching, he or she would not see him leave the water.
He hoped.
\*\*\*
He pulled himself up on the shore thirty minutes after leaving the boat. He could have surfaced sooner, but he didn't want to be seen. Now, as he dripped seawater onto the wooden docks, he stared down the coast at the place where his ship, and his temporary sanctuary, had been. All that could be seen of the boat was the charred tip of the main mast, barely visible in the night's gloom as it poked a few feet out of the water.
Captain Helos, if he still lived, would not be pleased.
He turned away from the sunken boat and walked into the city. No help for it now, he would have to find a meal and fortify a new sanctuary to wait out the day. Fortunately, there was no shortage of suitable victims in Athens. Theron looked back at the mast one more time. Whoever set the fire was probably watching the wreckage even now, waiting for him to surface. He should go back, try to see if he could figure out who was trying to kill him. But what if they weren't there? Or what if they saw him first? With no safe place in the city to hide he would be exposed and vulnerable to their attack. Better to set up his sanctuary as soon as possible. He'd already lost an hour and a half of dark, so he would need to get to work. It would be a busy night. Once he had his sanctuary fortified and ready he would hunt down his pursuers and make them pay for his injuries.
The fire had cost him a great deal of blood. He'd used much of it to break free, and still more to heal his burns. He would have to find more before he could work his protective psalms over his new tunnel home. With that in mind, he took a longer route through the tavern district, looking for a drunkard or a prostitute. There were plenty of both in Athens.
Theron passed by a modest three-story structure. The front sported a wide veranda covered by a triangular roof. The veranda was built to emulate the big Parthenon building on Acropolis, with six wide fluted pillars supporting the roof. Beneath the roof was an open area with chairs, tables, and of course, women. A dozen of them sat languidly in the evening air, fanning themselves or simply removing layers of clothing to keep cool.
Several called to him as he walked by, but he paid them no attention. A brothel whore was the exception to the general ease of feeding on prostitutes. When a brothel woman disappeared, they were almost always missed. An angry madam could be a tenacious pest. The best kind of prostitute to feed upon was the unattached sort, one with no ties to anything or anyone, or even a regular clientele.
Those sorts could usually be found closer to the taverns, walking the streets looking for drunken men who needed a release. By and large, they were less attractive and dirtier than the brothel ladies, but they were cheaper. Besides, Theron didn't choose them for how they looked or smelled, he just wanted their blood. Any of them would do.
He found a likely woman walking alone on the street near a loud and bawdy tavern. The noise of the men and women drinking inside masked the sound of her hard sandals clicking on the paved street, but there was no hiding the woman's garish attire. Her black hair was tied back with a bright yellow scarf which hung past her shoulders, occasionally fluttering in the light breeze. A thin red blouse did little to hide her small but perky breasts. Her skirt, which matched her scarf, was cut on the side all the way to her crotch, allowing him a glimpse of her shapely buttocks every time she took a step.
In all, a very nice catch.
Theron approached her from behind, swaying just a little, and plastered a lopsided smile on his face, hoping she would take him for a drunk. "Hello," he said, a bit slurred.
She turned to face him, a smile on her dark, lovely face. "Good evening, sir. Do you like what you see?" Her lips were stained red and smelled of berries, and her eyes shone a deep sapphire blue even in the moonlight. This close, he could see the curve of her breasts as her thin, filmy blouse struggled to cover them. A flowery smell surrounded her. Jasmine, perhaps. Or maybe Lavender. She was beautiful. Perhaps too beautiful for her profession, but that was not his concern. He nodded.
"I do, Lady," he replied. "The street is hardly a place for one such as you. May I escort you somewhere more...comfortable?"
"Yes, provided you show me the coin first."
Theron reached into his pocket and pulled out a gold shekel. It was an ungodly sum for one night's pleasure, but he didn't have anything smaller. In any case, she would only be in possession of it long enough for him to kill her, then he intended to take it back. He placed it in her palm, grinning, and wished he'd taken the time to moisten his mouth with wine so he would smell like a drunk, as well. "Here, Lady," he said. "Will this do?"
She took the coin and brought it to her eye, inspecting it in the weak light. To his surprise, her eyes did not grow at the glint of gold in her fingers. She shook her head and handed it back to him. "This is not enough. A pity."
Theron's smile faltered. Not enough? He scanned her face, looking for some sign of a jest, but her expression remained guarded and distant. He removed another gold shekel from his pouch and placed both in her hands. What did it matter, anyway? Two gold would be enough to buy a horse in any city in the world, it should be enough for her.
"If that is not enough, Lady," he said. "Then you can keep walking." He had more gold, but it would look better if he seemed angry.
She looked at the two coins in her hand, smiled, and put them in a pouch between her breasts. "This will do," she said. "You must have a powerful need tonight."
"For two gold shekels, you had better be able to satisfy it," he replied.
"Don't worry," she said, turning her back to him and walking down the street. She waggled her finger at him, indicating he should follow."You will not be disappointed."
Theron looked at the olive skin of her neck, and the graceful curve of her skin as her veins pulsed just beneath the surface. "I'm sure I won't," he said.
She led him to a modest two story building near the market district. As they climbed the stairs to her door, he watched her skirt sway back and forth. Several times it moved to the side just enough for him to see everything underneath, and he realized it had been a very long time since he'd lain with a woman.
She opened her door and stepped aside. "Please come in."
Theron walked into the room and noted the lavish settee, the thick rugs on the floor, and the many cushions scattered around the main room. In the center was an oaken table flanked by a pair of red-cushioned chairs. In the far corner sat a large bed, with thick mattresses and sheets of red silk. Half a dozen pillows covered the bed. Elegant tapestries hung from three of the four walls, depicting various scenes in nature. On the left wall was a thick wooden door, which probably led to the rest of her dwelling.
She obviously did quite well, as evidenced by the fact that gold was not enough. Theron started to wonder if perhaps she might be missed, after all. If her customers were so affluent, odds were good her disappearance would not go unnoticed, which would be very bad for him. Perhaps he should leave now and find other prey.
He turned around just in time to duck her clawed hand. He fell to the floor and rolled to his right as she aimed another blow at his head. Once he bumped into the far wall, he shot to his feet and turned to face his adversary.
The woman he'd thought was a whore advanced on him with her claws and fangs extended to their full length. Her eyes glowed red, casting her face in a fiery hue.
"You're a Bachiyr," Theron said stupidly. Now he understood why such a woman was wandering the area around the taverns. She must have been looking for victims, too.
"Very astute, Theron of Macedonia," she replied, circling.
"You know me?"
"All Bachiyr know you. The Council has promised a position in the Halls to anyone who brings you to justice. I mean to claim it for myself." She stepped forward, waving her claws in the air in an obvious attempt to distract him. "Tonight I will leave Athens forever and carry your head to the Council as a trophy."
Theron watched her claws and smiled. The trick was so basic, it barely merited his attention. "You overestimate yourself," he replied, allowing his own claws to extend. He would get to feed tonight, after all.
"We shall see," she replied. She sprang forward, fast as a cobra, her claws extended in a straightforward thrust that would have impaled him if he hadn't seen the move a thousand times before. Theron stepped to the right and brought the claws of his right hand down in a swipe intended to remove her hand from her arm, but she dodged aside just in time, twisting her body as she passed so that his claws cut only air.
Before she could right heself, Theron planted a boot in the small of her back and launched her into the wall. She hit with a thud, tearing one of the tapestries and knocking it to the floor. It fell over her like a net, but she ripped her way free in seconds and shot to her feet, a look of pure fury on her face and a thin line of blood leaking from a cut in her head.
By the time she freed herself he was already on her. His clawed left hand punched through her belly while his right caught her arm and pinned it to the wall. He turned his body to the side, pinning her other arm with his shoulder and dodging a kick at the same time.
"The Council will never know what happened to you," he promised, a wicked grin on his face. "They will never find your ashes, if they bother to look at all." Knowing the Council, they probably wouldn't. This vampire was no one special. The council most likely didn't even know she existed, which made her a good choice for feeding, as well.
But instead of asking for mercy or cowering in fear, she laughed at him. Theron stared at her amused expression, wondering what was happening. He had all the leverage. He was stronger, faster, and far more experienced. By rights, she should be pleading for her life, not laughing in his face.
When a hand clamped around his shoulder and threw him backwards into another wall, he figured it out.
He hit the wall hard enough to crack it, and then sank to the floor. His head spun, and a touch of nausea threatened to drop him back to the ground, but he forced his body upright just in time to catch a blow to the chin that slammed his head back into the wall. Stars exploded in his field of vision, but he retained enough presence of mind to duck.
Above his head, part of the wall cracked under another blow. He'd gotten out of the way just in time. Acting on instinct, he thrust his hand forward and was rewarded as his claws sank into a seeming wall of flesh, which shuddered at the blow. A grunt of pain sounded above his head and he pulled his bloodied claws out and stabbed them forward a second time, spraying bright red ichor all over the walls and his face.
The mountain of flesh retreated half a step, giving Theron time to move aside and reorient his thoughts. Now that he could focus, he noted the largest Bachiyr he'd ever seen standing a few feet away. The giant stood at least seven and a half feet tall, and probably weighed as many as three Therons. His bushy eyebrows sprang from a hairless forehead, and sat atop glittering black eyes set deep within his face. A sparse, shaggy beard hung halfway down his chest, but Theron could clearly see the fangs jutting from his upper lip.
At the moment, the giant stood staring at the holes in his belly. Behind him, the woman had regained her feet and was walking toward the big one.
"Not the brightest of the lot, is he?" Theron teased.
The giant's head snapped up, and he lunged so fast Theron barely had time to jump aside. He caught a glancing blow to the head from the giant's right hand that nonetheless sent him flying toward the far wall. When he landed, the woman was laughing again.
"He doesn't have to be," she said.
"I guess not," Theron admitted.
The giant, meanwhile, had turned around to face him again. The wall behind him had so many thin cracks it reminded Theron of a spider's web. Every time the behemoth slammed into a wall the whole building shuddered. And the noise! Soon the city guard would descend upon them if he didn't do something to end this quick.
Theron looked at the cracks in the wall, and he had an idea.
He dodged aside as the giant came again, this time he jumped toward the woman, who tried to step away to the left but failed as he wrapped his arms around her neck. Theron jerked her head to the side and jabbed his claws into her lower back. She screamed at the pain, and the giant turned around again, growling something Theron could not understand.
The two circled, Theron holding the woman between them as a shield, using the claws in her back to prod her in the desired direction. She grunted in pain and tried to rake her claws across his body, but Theron swallowed the pain and kept his hold on her. He would heal the wounds soon enough. The giant seemed unwilling to attack while his mistress was so vulnerable. Perfect.
Once in position, Theron twisted his claws, making the woman scream in pain. The giant stood for a moment, indecision stamped on his face, then he lunged again. Theron tossed the woman at the giant's feet and leapt aside as the two tumbled over each other. The giant crashed into the weakened wall and smashed right through it. He fell into the street below and right into the waiting arms of the city guard, who immediately tried to place him under arrest.
Theron heard the shouts of pain from the humans in the street. It would not take long for the giant to kill them all, so he didn't have much time. He grabbed the woman, who squirmed in pain on the floor in a spreading pool of blood, and pulled her to her feet. She wobbled, and he realized that both her legs were broken. So much the better. He pulled her close and sank his fangs into her throat, drinking deeply. She groaned and swatted at him with her right hand, but it was a weak and ineffective attempt. She had lost too much blood.
Right away he felt a surge of strength. Bachiyr blood was much richer than human blood, but the Council frowned upon the Father's children feeding on each other. Theron didn't care, he needed blood, and she had it. Damn the Council and their rules. They were hunting him already, anyway. This would just give them something else to be angry about, provided they bothered themselves with it at all, which he doubted. He drank from her until she stopped moving, which didn't take long.
He cast her body aside and listened as the sound of fighting outside grew more intense. Men screamed in pain and fear, while others shouted orders. An occasional deep grunt and the sound of bodies smashing into buildings punctuated the general din. He walked over to the hole in the wall and peered out to see how the giant was doing against the Athens city guard.
At least a dozen men lay broken and bleeding as the giant Bachiyr whirled and danced in the street. For such a large man he moved deceptively fast, and the city guard found their numbers dwindling until a second squad joined the first. The captain of the new squad, a wizened old soldier about half the size of the giant, ordered his men to throw a bucket of pitch on the frenzied devil in their midst.
Once the giant was covered in black, sticky tar, the captain threw a torch at him. The resulting fire flared high enough to make Theron back away from the hole on the second floor. He had seen enough, anyway. The sound of the big Bachiyr's scream rattled the wall and confirmed Theron's suspicions. The giant would not survive the night.
He looked around for a way out of the building but saw only the wooden door the giant had come through. He checked it anyway, hoping for a rear exit. Instead he found only the remaining chambers of the woman's sanctuary, which confirmed what he'd already suspected. To escape, he would have to fight his way past the city guard.
He checked the scene outside and saw that, for the moment, most of them were distracted by the flaming giant. The huge Bachiyr kept the soldiers at bay with his wild flailing and deep bellow, but several of the men had drawn crossbows and were getting into position. Ordinarily, such puny weapons would not have much effect on one so big, but with the flames eating at his flesh the giant apparently thought better of continuing the fight and instead sprinted down the street, headed for the ocean. Two dozen guardsmen gave chase, their white cloaks streaming behind them as they fired bolt after bolt into the giant's back.
Theron watched them go, amused by his good fortune. Not a single one of the guardsmen had remained behind to investigate the building. Now was his chance. He vaulted through the hole in the wall and fell to the street below. It wasn't a long drop, but he bent his knees and rolled into his landing anyway, just to be safe. The last thing he needed to do right now was break his leg. He could heal it, of course, but that would take time, and the city guard could return at any moment. Better to be far away by the time they did.
He ran down the street, heading away from the ocean and deeper into the city. He had no idea where he was going. The city had changed so much since he'd lived here that the only familiar landmark was Acropolis. Fortunately it was visible above the rooftops, which allowed him to keep his bearings. While he ran, he thought about what the woman had said. The Council had offered a position within the Halls to anyone who could capture him.
A high prize, indeed. Only the elite of his race were permitted to live in the Halls of the Bachiyr. Adonia had nearly turned green with jealousy when Ephraim offered Theron a place within its walls. She had tried unsuccessfully for centuries to gain the notice of the Council, and she was far older than Theron. Such an offer would tempt every vampire from Rome to the far eastern cities and beyond. Not only would he not be safe in Athens, he realized, he would not be safe anywhere in the world. Bachiyr from every corner would come looking for him, all with visions of glory running through their minds. The Council had left him with no place to hide.
His stay in Athens would have to be very short. From this point on, he would have to keep moving in order to stay ahead of his pursuers. Most of them would be minor Bachiyr with dreams of grandeur, who would have no idea of the kind of power he possessed. They would be little more than annoyances as long as they didn't band together.
But there were other powerful Bachiyr in the world, and not all of them had already secured a place in the Halls. Theron could think of a dozen, at least, that he would prefer to avoid if at all possible. Adonia, for example. By all reports, she still lived in Athens, and if the woman and her giant friend---Theron realized then that he'd never gotten their names---knew he was in the city then Adonia surely did, as well. Which meant she was probably prowling the streets even now, looking for him.
The thought caused him to slow his pace, no sense in drawing attention to himself. Even at this late hour people walked the streets of Athens, but few of them ran. Better to try and blend in as much as possible, at least until he could find a safe place to spend the day.
Of course, blending in was difficult to do with blood all over his clothes. He would need to replace them, and soon. He scanned the street, looking for a suitable candidate. After locating several men who had a height and build similar to his own, he settled on a drunkard weaving his way through the streets in the direction of Acropolis. Judging by his shabby clothes, the man was not on his way home. Only the wealthy lived in the shadow of the great hill. He was probably headed for the taverns. It didn't matter. Wherever the man was going, he would not get there.
Theron would see to that.
\*\*\*
Thirty minutes later, Theron walked through the city in his new clothes. He had not spilled a single drop of his victim's blood on them and he blended in perfectly with the handful of people already in the street. The drunkard even had a few coins on him, which Theron took, realizing too late that he'd left two gold shekels behind in the woman's home. He hated to lose that much money, but he wasn't going to go back for it. By now the place would be crawling with the city guard, and probably a handful of Bachiyr, as well.
A group of guardsmen tromped by in orderly rows, the moonlight glinting off their steel helmets and the tips of their spears. Theron watched them go. Their tight ranks reminded him a bit of the Roman Legionaries who patrolled the streets of Jerusalem, though the Romans kept tighter formations and wore red cloaks instead of white. The Athenians were no less formidable, however, and he kept a safe distance. He heard a few snippets of hushed conversation as they passed by.
"...eight feet tall."
"I heard it was ten."
"...set the damned thing on fire."
...still fought..."
"...jumped into the ocean..."
So, the giant had made it to the water, after all. Theron smiled. The big fellow was even tougher than he thought. He would be in bad shape when he surfaced, however. The burns he suffered would take time to heal, and even then it would be impossible for a being that size to hide for long now that the city guard was looking for him. Theron would not be the only one leaving Athens as soon as possible. If the giant had any sense, he would leave tonight.
For that matter, Theron should leave tonight, as well. He was rested, healed, and had plenty of blood. There was no reason to spend another day in the city. He had planned to stop by his tomb---if it still existed---and see how it had fared over the centuries, but it would make more sense to leave the city while there was still enough night to find a secure place to spend the day.
He turned north, using Acropolis as a guide. He would travel inland, away from the coast and the highly populated cities that lay by the water. The bigger cities were bound to have plenty of Bachiyr. If he could reach the countryside, he would have a better chance of outdistancing any who were hunting for him. As a bonus, his route through the city would take him close to his tomb. Maybe he would have time to visit, after all.
\*\*\*
The building, though showing signs of age and wear, stood tall and straight on the spot where his father buried him. It was a massive structure, several stories tall and at least a hundred paces wide. Probably the home of some wealthy merchant. He should have known his tomb would be gone. There was no one left in the city to wonder where he had gone. His father had probably died not long after Theron joined the Bachiyr, leaving no one left alive to mourn him.
Theron stared at the walls, trying to remember what his place of rest had looked like. Back then, it was little more than a hole in the stone, covered by a slab of rock. The surrounding grounds had been bare save for a handful of other tombs, much like his own. Over the centuries, the dead must have lost their power to preserve their final resting place and the living had moved in. Where had they put the bodies? Theron wondered. And what must they have thought when they opened his tomb and found it empty? A smile found its way to his face. He would have liked to have seen that.
"I knew you would come here," a voice behind him said. It had been nine hundred years since he'd heard it last, but he would recognize it anywhere. The smell of jasmine drifted through the night, confirming what he already knew. He turned, allowing his claws to grow for the second time that evening.
She looked the same as he remembered, with dark, almost black hair that reached down to her waist. Her skin was the color of oak ashes, gray and dark at the same time. The deep brown of her eyes glared at him from a face he had remembered many times over the last nine centuries. He'd forgotten how beautiful she was, and something stirred within him as he recalled their past together. Not love, certainly. He had no place for that. But something pleasant, like finding something you lost long ago. Adonia's full, thick lips turned up in a smile. He remembered how they had looked with blood dripping from them to roll down her chin.
Good times.
"Adonia," he said. "I had hoped to avoid this."
"I'm sure you did," she replied. "You know the Council has put a bounty on your head."
"So I heard. The last I recall, you had little regard for the Council."
"That was before they offered a place in the Halls for whoever kills you." Adonia's smile vanished, and her eyes glittered in the shadows of her face. "That post should have been mine. I was older. I was stronger. I was far more suited to battle, and yet they offered everything to you, instead."
Theron had heard this all before. Nine hundred years ago, to be exact. Adonia's anger was part of the reason he'd never returned to Athens. "You spoke of the Council as though they were a group of old fools even then. You could not even mention Herris' name without spitting on the ground. They chose me because they wanted someone loyal."
"So they did," she replied. "And I have waited centuries for you to fall out of their favor. Centuries of hearing stories about your glorious rise through the ranks of the Enforcers. Years spent listening to other Bachiyr speak your name in hushed tones, all the while knowing I was the one they should be fearing. My name they should revere, if not for some twist of the Council's desire that put you above me."
He sighed. "I don't want to kill you, Adonia."
Adonia snorted. "This is long overdue, Theron." She dropped into a crouch, bringing her hands up to guard her face and torso but leaving her legs free to move. Theron remembered this stance, he'd seen it numerous times during their nights together. Her legs, deceptively fast, could strike from under the guard of her hands at any time, flashing forward like a snake. The tips of her boots bore three-inch wooden spikes, making them that much more dangerous.
"So it is," he said, and brought his hands to waist level. From there, he could better block strikes from above and below, and keeping his hands low helped his center of gravity.
She came at him, a whirling, spinning dance of claws, feet and teeth. She had taught him this move nine centuries ago, and even now there simply was no good way to block her as she rained blows at him from every angle. There was a time when he would have dived in, accepting the wounds as he tried to close with her, but many scars and gallons of lost blood had taught him otherwise. Rather than try to engage, Theron moved a few paces back, putting himself out of reach of her numerous weapons.
Soon after he backed away, she stopped her spin, planting both feet flat on the ground about shoulder-width apart and slightly bent at the knees. "You still remember," she said.
"That and more."
"But not this." She launched herself at him, leading with her claws. It was so bold and amateur an attack that he had not expected it from her, and he barely got his arms up in time to deflect her claws. The impact knocked him to the ground, and she landed on top of him, digging with her claws and snapping at his throat. He tried to grab her wrists but that left him exposed to her bite, so he focused on trying to dislodge her, instead. The two rolled and grappled in the street, sending up small clouds of dust.
He winced as her claws traced a line across the top half of his face, missing his eyes by a hair's breadth. His own blood dripped into his mouth, and the taste of it brought his fangs to the surface. He suppressed the urge to lunge at her throat or jab his clawed fingers into her belly, instead trying to hold her back and knock her off him. If he could jar her loose, he might be able to escape. He tried to wriggle out from under her, using his legs for leverage.
Adonia laughed, smiling at him as he tried to block her attacks rather than strike back. She certainly had no qualms about trying to kill him. He looked in her eyes and realized that, to her mind, she had already won. History together or no, she would not stop until one of them was dead. It reminded him of his former friend and Lead Enforcer, Ephraim. They had worked together for centuries, yet he'd killed Ephraim without a second thought.
Forgiveness, Jesus had said. That's what Ephraim had been looking for when Theron killed him. Is that what he wanted? To be forgiven? Could he ever be? It's not too late, for him or for you...
Theron knew better.
Pain ignited in his side as Adonia scored another serious hit. Her claws dug several inches into his abdomen, tearing at the flesh with a wet slurp. His blood flowed over her fingers and into the street beneath him, just as Ephraim's had flowed over his fingers to drip onto the floor. Ephraim had died without fighting back. Not a single blow. He'd just sat there and waited for his death with a sad expression on his face.
Not me, Theron thought. He gave up trying to block Adonia and let himself get into the fight, at last. He let go of her wrists and reached for her throat with both hands. Surprised, she did not move away in time, and Theron's fingers closed around her throat. He dug his clawed thumbs into the soft flesh under her jaw, launching a spray of her blood at his face.
She raked his arms, trying to claw her way free of his grip, but he accepted the pain willingly, even eagerly. He'd told her he didn't want to kill her, but as his right thumb brushed against the bone of her lower jaw, he realized now that it was a lie. It would always be a lie. Not only did Theron want to kill her, he wanted to drain her completely and leave her dried out carcass in the street as a warning to any other Bachiyr who might come hunting for him.
More pain in his side, this one in his lower ribs, as his desperate opponent dug into the flesh, grabbed a rib, and snapped it. The pain was intense, flaring through his torso like fire, but he held on. He pulled her close, bringing her throat down and closer to his mouth. Adonia's struggles increased in frenzy, and she abandoned her attempts to injure him in favor of breaking free. She put her hands on his chest and pushed, flailing with her legs. Now he was the aggressor, and she was the one trying to escape.
Theron wrapped his legs around her lower half and pulled her closer to him, taking away her leverage. He then shifted his weight, rolling her onto her back. She slammed her forehead into his face, breaking his nose with an audible crack. More blood spilled onto his lips, but instead of making him wary, it fueled his hunger. He released his grip on her throat and immediately blood welled up from the wound and spilled down over her flesh. He then grabbed her by the face and slammed her head into the hard stone cobbles. He did so again, and then again. The fourth time, he heard a sharp crack.
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.
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.
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
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."
Downie swallowed. Suddenly the room felt cold. He had seen photographs of Nazi medical experiments. He had met people burnt beyond recognition. He had helped children with no limbs. What could possibly be worse?
Then he decided: nothing. Nothing could be worse than what he had seen in his work. These astronomers spent their lives looking at stars; they were unaccustomed to ugliness. But he, Dr. David Downie, had been inured.
He stood up. "Let me see this photograph," he said.
The old man nearly fell over.
"Are you mad?" The professor rose to his feet. "It can destroy you."
Downie smiled thinly. "I am a psychiatrist, professor. It is my job to deal with trauma. If I am to help these people, I must view the photograph."
"I cannot allow it!" the old man said, his mouth opening and closing like a fish's. "You would be crippling yourself."
But Downie was already walking toward the far table, where the photograph lay in a box. "I have never shied away from anything, professor. Not if it can help my patients. It is my job to learn what frightens them, and I will do so here, as well."
"But this is no earthly horror!" the professor called behind, shuffling forward with his cane. Downie, however, was already opening the box.
"Stand back, professor," he said coolly. "You might not want to see this."
Before his curiosity and courage could desert him, Downie reached into the box and pulled out the photograph.
He stared silently.
It was a photograph of a woman. A young woman. Perhaps twenty years old. A woman? In outer space? Could this be the right photo? Then Downie noticed something odd. The woman had wings. And a halo. Downie wanted to laugh--just a girl in a Halloween costume--but instead, his breath died. He looked into the woman's eyes. Deep, blue green. Pure. Perfect.
Oh God.
Downie fell to the floor. His hands dug into the paper. The angel claimed him. He could see only those green eyes, her pink lips, her cream skin and golden hair. So beautiful....
The professor's cane hit Downie's hands. The photograph flew away, and the professor tossed his coat over it. Downie felt as if his soul had been wrenched from his body. He made a hoarse sound like a wounded animal.
"Doctor!" the professor cried. He was shaking Downie. "Doctor, look at me!"
Downie looked at him. He looked at the wrinkles. The white nose hairs. The pores. The crooked teeth. Then, in horror, he looked at his own hands, saw all his imperfections, the lines and dry skin, each flaw a mountain after the pureness he had seen.
"So ugly..." he whispered, then shut his eyes, fell over, and hit his head against the imperfect world he could never view again.
Standing above him, the old astronomer shook his head, shed a tear, and closed his eyes. Tomorrow he would cancel the telescope program. For now he lifted the photograph, pulled out his lighter, and brought the two together.
If you enjoyed The Ugliest Thing, please check out some of Daniel Arenson's other works, including Blood of Requiem, Firefly Island, and Eye of the Wizard. Or visit him at danielarenson.com.
A Note From The Author
Dear Reader,
When I finished writing 33 A.D. and sent it off to see the world, I did so with the intention of writing a sequel. Several of them, in fact. The book is the first in what will be a series of novels set around The Council of Thirteen. The second novel, Saying Goodbye to the Sun, has been out for about 9 months or so, and goes into a bit more detail regarding the Council and some of its key players. Particularly Ramah, who is a personal favorite of mine.
Presently, I am putting the finishing touches on 61 A.D., which once again brings Taras and Theron into the picture. The story takes place during the Iceni rebellion in Roman era Britannia, when Queen Boudica sought to cast Nero's forces out of the country. But before the book is released, I felt the need to delve a little deeper into the characters Taras and Theron and show you, the reader, what sort of "people" they will become.
Enter this book. Two short stories revolving around each character, designed to give you a better feel for them as individuals before I plunge them back together. As a bonus, I decided to include a small preview of 61 A.D. Please note that the preview has not been copyedited or finalized, so some aspects may change before the book is released, Particularly if my old nemesis, Captain Typo, makes an appearance.
In any case, I hope you enjoy getting to know Taras and Theron a little better, and please feel free to email me at Monkeyfeet73@yahoo.com with any comments or questions. Whether you love my work or hate it, I still enjoy hearing from you. It is only through your feedback that writers like me can grow.
As always, thank you for spending some of your precious time with me. I hope you find it was well spent.
--David McAfee, May 18, 2011.
And now, just because I feel like it, one last (tiny) piece of weird fiction, just for you!
A. Asexual reproduction is the wave of the future! Someone cut off my arm and let's see if it sprouts a new me.B. Be careful cutting it off. It's gotta be a clean cut or it won't heal right.C. Careful, I said!D. Damn it! Now all I have is a jagged stump!E. Everyone's gonna laugh and call me Stumpy McAfeeF. Fuck, that hurts!G. Gosh, that was dumb.H. Hey! The fingers on my severed arm are twitching!I. Is it turning into a new me?J. Just look at those things waggle!K. Know what? This still hurts.L. Losing a lot of blood here...M. My arm...it's...it's...N. Not turning into a new David, that's for sure.O. Okay, I feel pretty stupid now.P. Please call 911.Q. Quick, before I lose consciousness.R. Really. I'm blacking out.S. Shut up, already! I know that was stupid. Just call the @#8!ing number!T. That gesture was totally uncalled for.U. Uh-oh. I'm getting dizzy.V. Very dizzy.W. What? I can't hear you.X. X-tra honey mustard sauce? Huh?Y. You can't eat that!Z. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

