David McAfee - 61 A.D.

“Indeed there is, Ramah,” Herris replied. He leaned closer, and Ramah saw actual excitement in the dead man’s eyes. “I have just this moment come from a meeting with one of our humans in Britannia. We have found the Roman.”

Ramah looked up, trying to figure out why Herris would bother him with such trivial news. Herris looked excited, though, so Ramah dutifully nodded. “Where is he?”

“Londinium.”

“I’ll leave this very hour.” Ramah walked to the far side of his room and reached for the door handle. He didn’t need to pack anything. The Council had recently opened a gatehouse in Londinium, so he wouldn’t even need to travel overland to get there. Once he found Taras it should be an easy kill. He would be back before midnight.

“Wait, Ramah,” Herris said. “You don’t think I came all this way to wake you for that, do you?”

Ramah stopped at the door and turned to face the Headcouncil. “Is there something else?”

“We think Theron might show up in the city, as well,” Herris said.

Ramah smiled. Theron and Taras? In the same city? Could it be? There could only be one reason both renegades would be in such close proximity. “Theron must know Taras is there, also,” he reasoned.

“That is my guess, as well,” Herris replied.

“How did he find him before us?”

“I don’t know,” Herris admitted. “But the important thing is they will both be in Londinium, a relatively small city compared to Jerusalem or Carthage. They should be easy enough to find, especially if Theron remains true to form.”

Ramah nodded. Theron had taken to thwarting Council law at every turn, sometimes even leaving his victims out in the open without bothering to disguise his work. In Athens, he had even been seen in the act of drinking several humans dry. He simply didn’t care about the secrecy of the Bachiyr race anymore. If he arrived in Londinium, there would probably be a body or two found in the streets the next day that no one other than a Bachiyr could explain.

“I will find them both,” Ramah said, “and bring their heads back for the Council.”

Herris shook his head. “Kill the Roman, but Theron’s punishment has already been decided. You are to return him to the Halls so he can be made into a Lost One.”

“Even better,” Ramah said, and turned again to leave. This time Herris did not stop him, and Ramah soon found himself in the stone passages of the Halls of the Bachiyr, walking among the flickering torches and the acrid smell of pitch. Soon he would be in Londinium, and Taras and Theron would both be dead.

Oh, he had agreed to bring Theron back, and in truth, the thought of Theron as a Lost One did have a certain justice to it. But Ramah hated prisoners. They had to be handled, transported, guarded, and the like. Far too much trouble. In any case, Theron was powerful and resourceful. He would be difficult to guard. Far easier to simply remove his head and bring it back to Herris in a bag. Herris might complain, but Ramah was Second of the Council, and thus immune to judgment.

Ramah reached the outer halls and turned toward the Londinium passage. The tips of his fingers itched as his claws begged for release. He would let them out once he found Theron. Taras, too, but it was difficult to get excited about that. The Roman was a young Bachiyr and none too powerful. How he had managed to evade the Council’s minions for thirty years was a mystery.

Ramah intended to find out. Taras would live long enough to talk, then his head, too would part company with his shoulders.

Ramah slipped through the door into the Londinium receiving chamber, startling the clerk, who stammered out a greeting. Ramah ignored him and stepped through the door into the city, all memories of his dream forgotten.

Theron brushed the dirt from his sleeves, sending up clouds of dust into the night sky. He was glad to be off the ship. The constant rocking and roiling of the deck as it crossed the span from coastal Spain to Britannia had made it almost impossible to rest. To make matters worse, the crew was small, forcing him to endure his hunger for almost the entire journey. He could have killed every member of the crew, but that would have left him stranded in the middle of the sea, waiting to wither away.

Now free of the cargo hold, and of the crate he’d hidden in for the length of his passage, he felt better. Theron stretched his arms toward the moon, working out the cramps that threatened to set in as he scanned the small port village for any sign of a meal. He spotted the ship’s captain walking ashore. In a village this small there would not be much going on to merit a captain’s attention at this late hour, but it was hunger, and not curiosity, that drove Theron forward. He followed the captain a short way into the city until both men stood behind a single building.

The structure stood between them and the boat, obscuring their view of the docks. And also the dock’s view of the two men.

Excellent, Theron thought.

The captain turned around to face him, apparently not surprised to see Theron standing so close behind. He straightened his shoulders and faced the vampire with an expression that was probably meant to seem unafraid. The captain’s rapid heartbeat gave away his fear, however, and Theron had to force himself not to smile.

“So,” the captain began, “you are here.”

“Indeed,” Theron replied. “Sooner than I expected. Well done, Captain Sethus.”

“Thank the wind for that,” Sethus replied. “I had little enough to do with it.”

Theron nodded.

Sethus cleared his throat. “I believe you owe me ten gold coins.”

“Our deal was five gold coins.”

“You arrived sooner than expected, did you not?”

Theron smiled. “Didn’t you just say you had little enough to do with getting me here?”

“The speed of our travel was determined by the wind, but not the travel itself. You bought passage on my vessel, and you killed one of my crewmen en route.”

“I-”

“Don’t try to deny it, Ephraim or whatever your name is,” Sethus shook his fist at Theron, “I know it was you. You may have tossed the body overboard, but I saw the blood on your crate. I can replace the crewman, but it will take time, and for that inconvenience you must pay five more gold coins.”

“And if I don’t?” Theron asked.

“The Council of Thirteen would not be pleased to hear of it.”

“Probably not,” Theron agreed. Now he did smile. The captain had doubtless hoped to cow him by mentioning the Council of Thirteen. He was about to be surprised. The tips of Theron’s fangs poked into his lower lip. A tiny drop of blood formed, reminding him he hadn’t fed since halfway through the voyage.

Sethus took a step backward, but caught himself before he took a second. His outward demeanor remained calm and in control, but Theron caught the sweet smell of the man’s fear. “Headcouncil Herris would certainly take offense to the mistreatment of one of the Council’s favored,” Sethus said, probably believing Herris’ name carried some weight. Had it been almost any other vampire, it would have been enough.

But Theron was not any vampire.

He struck before the captain could utter another syllable, closing the distance between them and grabbing the man by the throat. His claws grew, but he was careful to let them get only long enough to hurt, not to kill. Not yet. His fangs extended to their full length, and the captain’s eyes widened in surprise.

Sethus grabbed Theron’s arm and tried to pull himself free from the vampire’s iron grip. Theron would have told him he was wasting his time, but he could see in the captain’s eyes that he already knew.

“My…crew,” Sethus said. “They’ll know…they know we carried you. Headcouncil Herris…will find out.”