David McAfee - 61 A.D.

She didn’t.

After a full minute with no movement other than the settling cloud of dust, Taras relaxed a little and looked closer at the scene. The wall across from him sported a large, jagged hole. Splinters of wood and shattered beams jutted out from all angles, pointing like accusing fingers. A single booted leg hung outside the hole, and a large red puddle was forming underneath it.

Then the smell hit his nose. Blood. Lots of it.

He walked over to the hole, keeping his fists ready, and stared over the edge at Octavia. She lay pinned beneath a fallen support beam, her pale features twisted in pain. Through her chest, just left of where he heart should be, a sharply splintered piece of timber had torn through her flesh. Blood welled up among the wound to drip slowly onto the floor. The piece of wood glinted red in the dim light.

Octavia raised her hand and pointed at him. Her lips moved, but no words came from them. Her eyes narrowed, and she put her hand on the beam across her belly and gave it a shove. It didn’t budge, but that didn’t stop her from trying.

“How did you find me?” Taras asked.

Octavia shook her head, a snarl on her pale lips.

That worried him. He’d been very careful not to leave a trail this time. In the past the hunters had tracked him by his kills, but for the last ten years he’d been feeding only when necessary, and he’d always disposed of the bodies afterward. He’d thought himself safe in Londinium. It was fairly remote and not densely populated, at least not by the standards of the Roman empire. True, the city had grown quickly, but it couldn’t be large enough to attract the attention of the other Bachiyr.

Could it?

Taras looked down at the squirming, hissing vampire in the rubble and realized he was wrong. Londinium had gotten too big. He wasn’t safe here anymore.

Octavia stared needles into him, even as her eyes glazed over. She wasn’t dead yet. In all honesty he wasn’t sure her injuries would kill her anyway. His kind seemed to be able to survive a lot. But if someone didn’t lift that beam off her belly and free her before dawn the morning sun would turn her into ashes.

The thought occurred to him that he’d never fed from another of his kind. He was hungry, and Octavia no doubt deserved his ire. He could feed from her with a clear conscience. She probably still had enough blood in her to satisfy his hunger. What would it do? Would it be stronger than a human’s blood? Weaker? Would it kill him?

Taras thought about that last question. If he drank from another Bachiyr and it killed him, would it matter?

Twenty seven years ago, a dead rabbi had told him there was always a choice, even though it might not be a good one. He’d meant that Taras could kill himself if he really wanted to, rather than live out his years as a monster. But he wasn’t ready to die back then. Nor was he ready now. He would leave her blood intact.

Taras turned his back on her and started walking. Maybe someone would stumble through this area tonight and find her stuck there, maybe not. If so, she would surely kill her rescuers. She’d lost a lot of blood and would need to replace it. Taras couldn’t bring himself to feel pity for them. Hell, he wanted to find someone to feed on, too. As he walked away, it occurred to him that he should just kill her and be done, eliminating her as a witness and as a danger to others. But if the Council already knew he was here it wouldn’t do much good. They’d be coming for him anyway.

The time had come to leave Britannia.

Theron bounced along the road to Londinium, looking like nothing more than another driver as he approached the high, wooden walls of the city. His clothes-brought over from Spain-were plain and a bit dirty, as would be expected of a traveler on the dusty road from the coast. His matted black hair needed attention, but for now his unkempt appearance would help him get through the gates unmolested. The city walls were solid, but not especially tall. If things at the gate went badly he could likely climb over before anyone spotted him. Of course, he could also kill the two guards at the gate, but that would make noise and cause an alert that would rouse the city guard, and he didn’t want to fight off hundreds of armed Roman soldiers.

He needn’t have worried. The guards barely spared him a bored glance as he passed. Three other late wagons rolled through the gates behind him. At the same time, a dozen or so wagons were leaving, along with a score of people on foot. Londinium, it seemed, was a city used to people coming and going at all hours of the day.

The smells of dust and sweat mingled in the air, along with those of mead and meat. The market had long closed, but the city was not empty. The streets buzzed with people, many of whom streamed out of the city, turning north at the gate. Up and down the street, windows were boarded and doors locked as people left their homes and businesses to flee the city. Not a good sign.

He caught snatches of conversation from some of the passers-by.

“…Camulodunum is gone. Burned to the ground…”

“…not a soul left alive…”

“…coming here next…”

“…Suetonius is leaving…”

“…taking most of the soldiers with him…”

“…ordered the city evacuated…”

So that’s why the people were leaving the city. Apparently the Iceni queen and her horde were on the march to Londinium. Theron could hardly blame the people, he’d heard what happened to Camulodunum; buildings razed, citizens tortured and killed, the whole city was left a smoldering ruin by the Iceni and their allies. And now they were coming here, and the Roman general Suetonius was leaving the city to burn. Small wonder the people were walking over one another to get out. Theron smelled their fear. Ordinarily he would have enjoyed it, but now it meant he needed to get in, do what he came to do, and get out. Would Taras still be here? Or would he have already left? Too many damn questions.

He steered the horses to a nearby trough and tied the cart to a post. He would not be using it again, and it would probably be stolen shortly after he left it. That, too, would be a good thing. The less evidence he left behind, the better. It had been twenty seven years since he had defied the Council and set out on his own, and he hadn’t lived this long by taking chances. Despite the fact that the city would soon perish under the weight of tens of thousands of Iceni raiders, he would still avoid any unnecessary risks.

Then again, just being in Londinium presented a risk in itself. The city had grown large enough that the Council had probably gained enough interest in the region to put a portal here. Nothing fancy, of course. The building would just resemble a dilapidated structure somewhere in the city walls. It wouldn’t look like much, but it would be a gateway to untold numbers of the Council’s minions.

Theron made a mental note to be extra careful. If he spotted any sign of the Council, he would leave. But for now, the bait was too tempting not to try and get a bite.

Taras. That damned former legionary who’d somehow managed to turn Theron’s world upside down by being alive when he was supposed to be dead. True, Theron’s own carelessness led to Taras’s transformation, but if the bastard had just taken him to Jesus’ tomb when he asked, Theron would still be in good standing with his people. He could have gone to the tomb, taken the rabbi’s head, and then presented it to the Council as proof of a job well done. He would still be Lead Enforcer, and privy to the Halls of the Bachiyr, with his own apartments and amenities. He would still be able to enjoy all the benefits of his once lofty status.

Instead he was strolling through a doomed city in stolen peasant’s garb and trying not to arouse the suspicion of a few human guards. Humiliating.