David McAfee - 61 A.D.

Only a few blocks from the tavern, the man slowed and peered into an alley. With his hand on the top of his pants, he changed direction and wandered into the dark space between the two buildings, yanking the front of his pants down as he went.

Taras closed the distance in half a second, and stood listening to the sound of liquid splashing on the wooden side of the building. The man had been drinking a great deal from the pot in his hand. Taras was surprised he hadn’t run out of the stuff, come to think of it. The man had been drinking it from almost the moment he’d left the tavern, he…

Damn! Taras should have seen it sooner.

He turned just in time to avoid the clawed hands of one of the Council’s minions. Taras ducked under the blow, feeling the wind of the other vampire’s hand rustle his hair. He rolled to the side, away from the alley, and sprang to his feet, clawed hands at the ready.

Three vampires faced him, including the “drunk,” who had left the alley to stand with his comrades. They would be Council vampires, probably low-level ones, at that. Not nearly as powerful as the one Taras had fought in Jerusalem. The Council didn’t seem to consider him much of a threat, so they only sent lackeys after him.

“Well done, Roman,” the middle vampire, a female, purred. “You’ve learned much with no one to teach you.”

Taras said nothing.

The female was tall but thin. She had the dark hair and eyes of the people who lived just north of the Mediterranean. Her pale cheeks looked hollow and sunken, as though she’d died of starvation rather than being killed by a Bachiyr. She was so thin she seemed emaciated and frail, but Taras knew better than to underestimate her. A vampire’s strength doesn’t have anything to do with muscle.

The other two didn’t leave much of an impression. The one on the left was short and a bit pudgy, and the one on the right, who’d pretended to be the drunken man, was only slightly taller than his friend, with a gleaming bald pate and eyes the color of ashes. Judging by her stance and her words, the woman was the leader of the three.

“Nothing to say?” she asked. “Don’t you want to know who we are?”

Taras said nothing. He knew already. They were Enforcers. Just like the last ones that had come to kill him. And the ones before that, and the ones before that. They caught up to him every once in a while, although Taras had lived in relative peace here in Londinium for nearly as decade. He had begun to imagine himself almost safe, but apparently not. They had taken longer than normal, but they had found him again just the same. Not that it mattered. They would die just like all the others before them.

“Have it your way,” she said, and the two male vampires sprung from her side and charged.

Taras waited until they were nearly on him, then he spun on his heel and sunk to the ground. His outstretched leg tripped the bald Bachiyr, who landed face first in the street. The other vampire’s wild swing went over Taras’s head, and he followed the first kick through, raising his leg enough to strike the overbalanced second vampire in the middle of his back. He fell to the ground just as his bald comrade was getting back to his feet.

Taras rammed his clawed fingers into the back of the bald one’s neck, sinking them to his knuckles, and grabbed hold of the vertebrae. With no time for finesse-his other opponent was already rising from the street-he twisted his wrist, separating the bones in the Bachiyr’s neck and rending the flesh of his throat.

As the bald vampire’s head fell to the cobbles, his companion regained his feet and turned around. He looked at his fallen comrade, snarled, and launched himself at Taras in a flurry of whirling claws.

Taras shook his head as he blocked a clumsy strike with his left hand and sidestepped the charging vampire. Using his opponent’s momentum against him, Taras swung him by his shirt and slammed his head into a nearby wall. The wood cracked and splintered, and the vampire’s head broke through the outer wall.

His opponent stood there, hunched over like a man in the stocks, until Taras plunged his claws into the fellow’s back, sending a spray of blood into the air. His arm made a wet slurping sound as he forced it inward, reaching through his innards until he felt the Bachiyr’s heart. Taras wrapped his hand around it and began to squeeze.

Despite the frantic thrashing of his victim, it was over in only a few seconds. Once Taras squeezed the heart to pulp, the body went limp.

He pulled his hand from the dead vampire’s back and turned to face the woman, who stood watching him with a satisfied grin. She had not moved a muscle through the entire encounter. Her coal black eyes glittered with amusement.

“How fresh were they?” Taras asked. They couldn’t have been more than a few weeks turned if they knew so little about fighting another Bachiyr.

“I turned them ten days ago,” she answered.

Taras nodded. He’d guessed as much.

“There are more coming,” she said.

“There always are.”

“True enough.” She circled around him, her eyes never leaving his gore-covered hands. “The Council will never let you live.”

Taras shrugged. He’d never asked their permission.

“My name is Octavia,” she said. “Have you heard of me?”

Taras hadn’t. He watched her walk around him, putting her body between him and the street. Obviously, she thought rather highly of herself.

“That’s too bad.” Octavia stopped, then brought up her hands in a fighting stance. The pose struck Taras as familiar. He’d seen several of the smallish men from the far east adopt similar poses prior to a fight. The prowess of those men had amazed him. If this vampire knew their secrets, he might be in trouble. He squared his shoulders, bringing his clawed hands to the ready.

“It doesn’t have to be bad, Taras,” she said, licking her lips. Octavia glanced meaningfully up and down his body.

Taras stared. Did she really mean to lay with him? He tried to hold his laughter inside, but a chuckle burst through despite his best efforts to keep silent. Octavia’s face darkened. The smile at the corners of her mouth fell away, and a look of genuine anger marred the fine skin of her forehead.

“Did I say something funny?” she asked.

“I’m not that big a fool, Octavia,” Taras replied. He brought his clawed hands up to his face and waved her forward. “Let’s get this over with.”

Octavia lunged forward, her speed nearly catching Taras off guard. He stepped to the side and managed to avoid the worst of the blow, but her claws sunk into his shoulder and drew three bright red lines of blood in his flesh.

He whirled to face her and was met by her foot as it smashed into his nose. The bright flare of pain and the loud crack informed him she’d broken it. He staggered backward, half blinded by his own blood, and tripped over the body of one of her companions. His head hit the street just as she sailed over him, her claws extended outward. If he hadn’t tripped when he did, doubtless she would have skewered him.

He wiped a sleeve across his eyes, clearing away some of the blood. The first thing he saw was Octavia coming at him again, leading with her right hand. Taras stayed motionless on his back, waiting until she got close enough, then kicked up with his foot, catching her in the solar plexus and launching her into the air, but not before she’d dug those claws several inches into his belly.

He swore as he stared at the deep gouges she’d cut across his abdomen. That hurt. Not enough to incapacitate him, but still painful. If he’d been mortal that would have done serious damage. The Council’s servants were getting better.

Taras shot to his feet just in time to see Octavia slam into a wall. The sounds of splintering wood and pain filled the street, echoing off the buildings around him. Taras ducked into a fighting stance, echoing the pose from his training in Rome. Squat, feet shoulder width apart, bent slightly at the knees. Fists coiled and ready at chest height. He could launch an attack from this position with foot or fist. Thus readied, he waited for Octavia to emerge from the pile of wood and dust.