David McAfee - 61 A.D.

“Here,” Baella said when she reached him. “Feed quickly. We don’t have much time.”

Theron grabbed the woman’s arm and pulled her close. She came to him with no resistance, her eyes still blank and thoughtless.

“What did you do to her?” he asked.

“Does it matter?”

No, Theron thought. It doesn’t. He tilted her head back, exposing her throat. Her blood pulsed through the artery in her neck, a tantalizing fraction of an inch beneath the surface. He could almost smell it underneath her sweat and the scent of sex, which clung to her like perfume. Definitely a prostitute.

Theron’s fangs extended, and he sank them into the woman’s neck. At that moment she regained her senses. Her sudden fear sprang through her blood like fire, and he gripped her tighter, losing himself in the sweet taste of her terror. She tried to scream as she struggled to free herself, but all she could manage was a hoarse croak, which soon turned into a whimpered plea for mercy.

Theron had never been known for mercy.

He twisted his neck, tearing the skin of the woman’s throat. As her body tensed with pain, the thrill of death coursed through him, igniting his nerves and sending his synapses into rapid motion. The blood flowed into his mouth and he sucked it down greedily, draining the woman dry as her struggles became weaker and weaker. Soon she stopped moving altogether, but still he drank. He did not stop until she was nothing more than a dry husk.

He threw the body into the street, instinctively looking around for a good place to hide it. When he saw Baella staring at him, he realized what he was doing. Protecting the secrecy of his race was the Council’s mission, not his. Still, he preferred to hide his kills from human detection whenever possible. If for no other reason than not to leave an obvious trail for the Council to follow.

“Still living by their rules, are you?” Baella asked.

Theron shrugged. “Old habits can be hard to break.”

The line, recited by old men for as long as Theron could recall, brought back a memory that stopped him cold.

Malachi stepped in, ducking his head and twisting a bit to the side in order to maneuver his broad shoulders through the doorway. He wore his shoulder-length brown hair tied back with a leather thong, leaving his craggy, olive-skinned face exposed from forehead to chin, and he didn’t look pleased. He fixed his stern features squarely on the much smaller Ephraim. “Thank ‘The Father,’ Ephraim? Why would you offer thanks to a demon? Have you learned nothing these last few weeks?”

“My apologies, my friend. Old habits can be difficult to break.”

“Indeed, they can,” Malachi said. “That you are trying at all says much about your progress.”

That was it. The beginning of the end. The first day of Theron’s long fall from the Council’s grace. Had it really been only twenty-seven years? It felt much longer. Nearly three decades of hiding and hunting, chasing Taras while running from Ramah.

“There will be time for daydreaming later,” Baella’s voice cut through his reverie. “We need to leave. Now.”

Wonderful. More running. More hiding. More skulking in filthy alleys trying to stay one step ahead of Ramah. And it wasn’t likely to end anytime soon.

Or was it?

Theron looked at Baella again, careful to keep his sudden thoughts hidden. The Council had been hunting her since the earliest days of his race. She’d made Ramah, and even Herris, look like fools many times. She was dangerous and cunning, and he’d best not forget it. But if he could somehow bring her in, would it be enough to restore his lost honor?

Maybe. Maybe not. But if anything in the world had a chance of getting him back into the Hall where he belonged, it would be this.

Theron fell into step behind her. He couldn’t take her. Not yet. He wasn’t strong enough to defeat her, and she had too many tricks for him to attack her openly. He would have to be subtle. Bide his time. Wait for the perfect opportunity. Then, when the moment came, he would strike.

If everything went as planned, he would bring Herris the ultimate present: Baella’s head in a sack.

Baella felt Theron’s eyes on her back and smiled, knowing his thoughts had gone exactly as she thought they would. So predictable, she thought.

Ramah ran through the dust and cobblestone streets of Londinium, staring into every crack and crevice as he passed. Every shadow was suspect. Every doorway a possible hiding place for Baella and her minions. He kept his claws out and his teeth ready, unwilling to let his guard down for a moment just in case he spotted his prey. The few people he encountered ran from the sight of him. Those that didn’t died fast and bloody as Ramah’s claws tore into them. He tore one woman nearly in half, spilling her entrails onto the street and silencing her screams with a twist of her neck. Ramah never even slowed down.

He couldn’t believe it. She was here. Somewhere in this wretched city walked the most powerful renegade vampire ever. Baella. Ever since he joined the Bachiyr, he had heard about her. The myths and rumors were plentiful, and ran the gamut from the unlikely to the impossible. Some said she was the direct daughter of The Father, while others believed she was a human wizardess. Still others doubted she existed at all. The woman had attained near mythical status among his people, in part because no one had ever seen her, with the singular exception of Theron. Even Ramah had never laid eyes on the Bachiyr who was such a bane to the Council. But that was about to change. After four thousand years, he finally had a chance to claim the kill he’d always wanted. He’d never been this close. He could almost smell her.

He now understood the significance of the freshly turned Bachiyr who’d attacked him earlier. Baella must have converted them in order to keep him occupied while she freed Theron. It had worked. Ramah had been forced to fight the new vampires while en route to his hiding place. At the time he’d enjoyed the bloodlust, but now he shook with frustration. He’d just missed her! Worse, he knew she’d left Taras alive to taunt him. She knew he would speak her name, and that Ramah would stop whatever he was doing to pursue her. That meant she wanted him to chase her. But why?

And why Theron? Ramah would chase her regardless of the company she kept. Doubtless she knew that, so taking the former Enforcer wasn’t necessary. That meant she wanted him for something, too. But what?

Damn it all, there were too many questions. He needed to focus his energies on finding her, not speculating about her motives. He’d force her to answer his questions when he caught her. Then he’d kill her, and bring her shriveled, blackened heart to Herris as a gift, along with Taras and Theron, if he could be captured alive.

He turned a corner and saw two figures huddled in the shadow of a tavern doorway, a man and a woman. The man’s back was to him, but his height and build were about the same as Theron’s. Could it be that easy? He didn’t recognize the woman, but he’d never seen Baella before, so that didn’t surprise him.

As he approached, he heard their voices.

“How much?” the man asked.

“Five silver,” the woman replied.

“Robbery. I’ll not pay more than two silver.”

The woman spat. “It’s a bargain at five. Four is my final price.”

A prostitute. Not Baella. Damn.

Ramah swept by the pair, plunging his claws into the man’s back as he passed. The man gurgled and slumped to the ground, while the prostitute screamed and fled. Ramah ignored her and stepped over the body of his kill, peering into the next alley.

The man grabbed Ramah’s boot, his weak grip leaving red prints on the leather. Ramah shook him loose and kept walking.