David McAfee - 61 A.D.

Theron laughed. “They know you carried a man named Ephraim who liked to sleep in a crate. When Herris asks, that is what they will tell him.”

Sethus nodded, his eyes clenched shut in pain. “Yes…yes. He will find out.”

“My name is not Ephraim, Captain Sethus. It’s Theron.”

Sethus’ eyes flew open at the mention of the name. So, Theron thought. Even the Council’s pet humans know of me. The fight went out of the old captain then, and that told Theron exactly what he’d wanted to know. The Council of Thirteen was using every available resource to capture him.

“It’s nice to be wanted,” he said. When the captain didn’t respond, Theron looked at him. The man’s eyes had closed, and his face had gone slack. He wasn’t dead, Theron could feel the heart beating under his fingers, just unconscious. Perfect. He could take his time, this didn’t have to be messy, and he’d need these clothes again, so it would be best not to get too much blood on them.

Theron bit into the tough flesh of the man’s neck, tearing into the artery just beneath the surface, and then sealed the area around the wound by pressing his lips to Sethus’ skin. Fresh, warm blood poured into his mouth and down his throat, filling him with the vitality of the living. His head began to buzz slightly, and his arms trembled. Tiny electric motes sizzled up and down his skin, sinking into his spine and setting his nerves aflame. Still he held on, his hunger driving him to siphon every last drop from the dying captain.

When it was over, Theron let the body fall to the dirt. Then, as he’d done for the last twenty seven years, he turned and walked away, leaving the corpse where it fell. This was another way of thumbing his nose at the Council. By Council Law, all victims had to be hidden, camouflaged, or otherwise disposed of in order to keep the secrecy of the Bachiyr race intact. As an outcast, Theron no longer concerned himself with such matters.

Occasionally, he would change his methods for a while and hide the bodies, as such corpses tend to leave a trail. The Council’s minions had been chasing him for nearly three decades, and sometimes they’d gotten too close, forcing Theron to fight or flee. In most cases, he fought, and won.

He’d killed more Enforcers in the last twenty-seven years than he could remember, and yet the Council continued to send more. Of course, Ramah still hunted for him as well, and had nearly caught up to him in Spain. Theron held no illusions as to who would prove the victor in a fight between himself and Ramah.

Ramah would tear him to shreds, and then only if he was feeling merciful. More likely the elder vampire would incapacitate him and bring him back to the Halls of the Bachiyr, where the Council of Thirteen would turn him into a Lost One.

Theron felt an involuntary shudder as he pictured the Lost Ones. Vampires cursed to serve the Council without the ability to feed. Their bodies rotted away as maggots and other larvae ate their flesh away. But they could never eat it all. The curse of the Lost One is that there would always be enough flesh for the body to function, no matter how much of it the insects devoured.

Theron would sit on the beach and watch the sun rise before he would allow that to happen to him. The council would probably be fine with that outcome, as well, which was just another reason for him to continue living. As long as he remained active, he would be a thorn in Headcouncil Herris’ side.

Besides, he was enjoying himself far too much to die now.

He turned from the building and walked into the street, the light of the nearly full moon on his shoulders. So this is Britannia. There were not many of the so-called Christians here. The Romans owned the land, despite the efforts of a tribe of rebels. Iceni, he thought they were called. Led by their furious and righteous queen. Boudica? That sounded right.

But none of that concerned him. His only purpose for being here lay with Gregor’s story of the tall northerner who spoke Roman and possessed a pair of sharp fangs. Apparently, the northerner had come across Gregor in the tavern district and nearly attacked him, but backed away and let him leave.

Why?

Taras needed blood as much as any other Bachiyr. What reason would he have had for letting Gregor escape? Theron supposed it could be another Bachiyr, but Taras fit the description, and Londinium was isolated enough to be out of the way while still being large enough to offer plenty of prey. It made sense. Taras would look for a good place to hide, and the city of Londinium was as good as any.

But why had he let Gregor escape? Taras should have killed the man.

No matter. Theron was here, and he would learn what he needed to know.

I hope it’s you, Taras, he thought as he put the port town at his back and started walking inland. It’s long past time for you to die.

Near the center of the city, Taras walked the dark streets in silence, scanning the dusty shadows of every alley and alcove he passed in his search for prey. On this night the moon was almost new, leaving very little light for him to see his way. While this didn’t bother Taras, who could see perfectly well in the dim evening, it presented a challenge to the humans in the city. Any who were out and about at this late hour had to carry a torch or a lamp, which made them easier to spot.

Even before he became a vampire, Taras was more comfortable stalking through the shadows than out in the open daylight. An assassin by training, he naturally did most of his work after the sun’s departure from the evening sky. But ever since his change the sun held only pain for him, and he’d been banished to the night.

Still, it suited him.

The streets seemed less crowded tonight than normal. Ordinarily Londinium remained busy and active until sometime around midnight, but tonight the cobbled streets seemed virtually empty but for the occasional drunkard or prostitute. He hadn’t even seen a single Roman legionary, and their patrols normally ran through the city every quarter hour. It was almost as if half the city had left during the day. But why?

Up ahead, Taras spied a man in coarse homespun staggering out from a tavern amidst a volley of curses and swears. At least the taverns are still open, he thought. The warm lights of the building reached into the street a short way, then faded into the darkness. The drunk called out an insult to some people still inside, then stumbled up the street mumbling under his breath while drinking from a sour-smelling clay pot. He looked harmless enough, but Taras followed him anyway just to be sure. If the drunk started any trouble, then Taras would have his meal. If not, he would keep looking.

The man wasn’t from one of the local tribes. He stood just over five and a half feet and had the dark hair and soft brown complexion of a Roman. By his accent, Taras guessed him to be from the capital city of Rome herself. You are a long way from home, he thought.

The man walked through the neglected sections of the city, taking pulls from his pot at various intervals. He led Taras through the Market district and into the city proper, where the buildings became a bit less solid and a bit more in need of maintenance. The wooden slats that made up the outer walls were either peeling or bare of paint altogether. Here and there, the ravages of sun or cold pulled at the roofs of the buildings. Though they were relatively new, they had not been taken proper care of. Likely because no one cared enough to do so.

There were very few people here, either, and of those few who walked the streets, most shied away from the drunk as he passed. Either they knew him and wanted to avoid him, or they simply feared anyone new. He passed a ramshackle tavern and hesitated at the entrance. It seemed he might go inside, but after a moment the man took another pull off his pot and kept walking, grumbling about the high cost of mead.