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.
Baella had to be nearby. She had to be.
Boudica spotted the torches atop Londinium’s Eastern wall. The city’s lights flared into the sky, illuminating the place in a dull orange glow that could be seen for miles. Under cover of darkness, her army had moved, covered from head to toe in black clothing, and managed to sneak, undetected, to within three hundred yards of the city gate. Well within range of her ballista.
Beside her, Heanua nodded, and Cyric motioned to the Captain of the Ballista Regiment. The big, heavy machines stood in dark silhouette, looking skeletal and deadly in the weak light. They moved forward on well-oiled wheels that her troops had padded with animal hides earlier in the day. The hides had dampened the sound of the wheels on the ground, but they also made rolling the machines a great deal harder. The last few hours had been long and tedious, but as she watched the first of her crews load a stone the size of a sheep, Boudica felt it was all worth the wait.
Behind her, crews carried large balls of tightly packed rope soaked with black pitch. The buildings in Londinium were mostly made of wood, and the balls would be set alight prior to launch. They should create havoc inside the city walls, and hundreds would feel the sting of their burn and breathe their acrid smoke just before they died. Once the city was reduced to a pile of burning rubble, her people would storm the walls and put any survivors to the sword.
“Sleep well, Romans,” she whispered. “Those of you who are lucky will never wake up.” Tonight she meant to wipe Londinium off the face of the world.
20
Taras lay in a pool of his own blood, watching it spread out around him in an ever increasing arc across the stone floor. The smell of it wafted up from underneath him, making it hard to think. The metal pole through his chest had ceased to hurt, and now he felt only a slight pressure as the skin and flesh tried to mend itself around the foreign object in his torso.
Maybe he’d lost too much blood to feel pain. That seemed likely, given the amount on the floor and the fact that he hadn’t fed recently. What had that witch gotten him into? Baella. He remembered the name. She’d been using him to get to Theron, and he’d fallen for it.
Clemency from the Council of Thirteen. What was he thinking? He’d never met any of the Councilors, but from what he understood, they never made deals such as the one she offered. He’d been a fool to think he could gain acceptance into their race. And now he would pay the price by dying like a stuck pig on a dirty floor.
Taras had spent nearly thirty years learning everything he could about the Bachiyr. He’d studied everything from folklore to reported firsthand accounts, even traveling to the East to speak with a man who claimed to have killed one. Almost all his leads turned out to be a waste of time, but he had managed to acquire a rudimentary knowledge of the Council and its minions.
Ramah was the one who hunted him. Ramah and Theron. Of course, Theron did so for personal reasons. Ramah was another matter. Bloodthirsty and violent, he made Theron look like a Jewish rabbi.
But this Baella woman…he’d never heard of her before. Whoever she was, the mention of her name had sent Ramah running after her like a dog chasing a rabbit.
Taras felt weak. His vision dimmed. This is it, he thought. The end of my days. He knew what it was like to die, he’d done it once already, and now it seemed he was about to do it again. Did he have the strength to fight it? Did he want to? He didn’t think so. Maybe it would be easier to lay down and die, as he should have done all those years ago.
But something about the comparison of Ramah to Theron brought back a fuzzy memory.
A Jewish rabbi.
Another time he contemplated death…
“You were wrong, Abraham,” he said. “Some of us want to die. Some would find it preferable.”
“It’s not beyond you, you know,” a voice said from behind him.
Taras spun, yanking his sword from its sheath. It was too early in the evening; too soon after such a painful goodbye to kill again, but he would if he had to. When he saw the speaker, his mouth fell open and he dropped his sword.
“You remember me,” Jesus said.
There stood the Nazarene, just as Taras remembered from the night he’d tailed Theron to the Gardens. That night, Jesus had not yet been arrested, and thus he didn’t have the cuts and bruises Taras saw later as he was led to Golgotha. On the cross, his face was bruised and swollen, and numerous cuts and scrapes pocked his body. Now, however, the man’s smooth, unblemished skin showed no evidence of abuse. The crown of thorns was gone, and Jesus's dark hair spilled over his thin shoulders and down his back. But the biggest change in the Nazarene, Taras noted, was the light.
