The Bachiyr threaded his way along the dusty streets. In this part of the city, the streets were little more than hard packed dirt beneath his feet. Londinium had cobbled roads and alleyways, but only in the city’s prominent areas. They would be used by the wealthy while riding in soft, padded coaches. Here, among the taverns and the brothels, no one cared if the wagons jounced wildly along the street. Most of the people here didn’t have so much as a wheelbarrow, anyway.
He wished he could have gotten here sooner. The moon was already low, leaving only a couple of hours before dawn broke over the eastern horizon. It would take a very lucky break for him to spot either Taras or Theron by then. Londinium wasn’t Rome or Athens, but it was not small by any stretch of the word, and the many people crowding the streets did not help. He estimated he would probably spend several days wandering around the city before he found another Bachiyr, but he was wrong.
Less than ten minutes later he turned into an alley and found not one, but two.
9
Theron stepped out of another tavern-his fifth of the evening-and froze. An icy shiver flashed up his spine and pinned him to the spot. Across the street, facing away from him, a figure clad in a dark cloak stared into an alley. Theron recognized him instantly, even though he hadn’t seen him for nearly thirty years. There was no mistaking the graceful, deadly movements or the close-cropped, curly black hair. Even from across the street, Theron could feel the vast power of the Bachiyr councilor.
Ramah the Blood Letter had found him.
Theron had known all along it was only a matter of time. No one could hide from the council forever. The world just wasn’t big enough. Still, he thought he had more time. Another few decades, at least. Had he been that careless? He didn’t think so, but then, you could never be too careful where the Council of Thirteen was concerned.
He watched, waiting for the elder vampire to turn around and see him. How would he escape this time? A frown creased his face. He wouldn’t escape. Ramah would not let Theron slip through his fingers again. Theron would be lucky to live long enough to receive the Council’s punishment. He stood, frozen in place, and waited for the worst.
But Ramah didn’t turn. His attention remained focused in the dark recesses of the alley across the street. And when he stepped into it, Theron didn’t bother to question his luck. He backed away from the tavern and ducked around the corner of a building. Once out of sight, he turned and ran as fast as he could.
Taras or no Taras, if Ramah was in the city, then Theron would find someplace else to be. And fast.
He ran down the street, pushing aside any of the town’s residents who got in his way. The crowds were starting to thin; most of the people who were leaving had already gone. He headed for the city’s main gate. The road outside the gate led, eventually, back to the coast. He would not be able to get there tonight, but numerous houses and cottages dotted the roads in Britannia, it would be simple enough to find a place to spend the day. Then tomorrow night he would make the port town and arrange passage back to Spain. It wouldn’t cost him much. He could convince most any captain to take him for free.
Fear is a powerful bargaining tool.
He turned one last corner, ready to make a beeline for the gate, when he crashed painfully into something solid and unyielding. Theron fell on his back, sputtering curses at himself. When he regained his senses, he saw a figure standing over him, silhouetted by torchlight. He didn’t have time to kill the stranger, so instead he tried to get to his feet.
He made it halfway up when someone grabbed him from behind, pinning his arms behind his back. Theron snarled, all thoughts of leaving these people alive gone from his mind in the instant it took him to realize he was about to be robbed. He tensed his muscles, preparing himself to rip the arms of the person behind him off and use them to beat the person in front of him to death.
But he couldn’t pull free. He struggled and squirmed, but his assailant was far too strong. It took him a moment to realize what that meant, and indeed, when he forced himself to calm down he heard the figure in front of him-a woman-chanting a psalm. He didn’t recognize it, but he could guess well enough its purpose. She was using magic to immobilize him.
“Well, Taras,” she said when she finished. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“Taras?” Theron asked. The grip on his arm tightened, and the joint in his elbow twisted painfully to the side.
Then the woman stepped away from the torch and Theron saw her face. For the second time that evening, he froze. Theron knew who she was instantly. He had only seen her face once before, back in Alexandria, but he would never forget it. To his knowledge he was the only Enforcer to have ever looked upon the face of the most wanted Bachiyr in the history of his race and live to tell the tale. Back then he had vowed to kill her if he ever saw her again, even though he doubted he ever would. To see her here, now, and with Ramah only a few blocks away. It couldn’t be coincidence.
“You,” he said.
“You remember me,” she said. “I’m flattered.”
“Don’t be,” Theron retorted. “I also remember my dog. She was a bitch, too.”
The woman smiled. “This is going to be fun.” She reached out her hand, bringing it to his cheek. Just before she touched him, Theron saw the sparks crackling up and down her palm. Another psalm he didn’t know. Damn.
She touched her palm to his face, and for an instant Theron felt a jolt of electricity sizzle through his body. Then the world went dark.
10
They stood with their backs to him, two Bachiyr of seemingly local origin to judge by their clothes and their accents. They smelled newly turned, not more than a month dead. The pair stood with their necks bent, looking down at a sobbing woman who lay squirming on the alley floor. One of them chuckled, and the other kicked the woman in the side, eliciting a sharp cry of pain. The smell of blood hung in the air, a tantalizing coppery scent that would have attracted other vampires to the alley like sharks. As it happened, Ramah was the first shark to the scene, and these two vampires would never live to finish the woman off.
He stepped forward, his fangs and claws tucked away for the moment. In truth, Ramah did not need either to deal with the two vampires. He could kill them from a hundred yards away if he chose, but that was less entertaining than spilling their blood in the street with his bare hands. His search for Theron and Taras had thus far proven fruitless, and it would feel good to release some of his irritation on these two renegades.
That the two figures standing in the shadows of the alley were Bachiyr was obvious, but they didn’t look familiar. Granted, he’d been away from the Halls many times, often for months or years at a time, but he still knew most of the other vampires in the world. That was by design. All Bachiyr had to be approved by the Council before they could be turned.
Unless they were turned during one of his absences, they had to be renegades. And the Council’s law on renegade Bachiyr was quite clear: terminate immediately. It would be a nice distraction before he went back to looking for Theron and Taras.
Ramah leaned against a wall and cleared his throat loudly. Both renegades turned to face him. Even the woman looked up. When she saw Ramah her face lit with such hope that Ramah couldn’t help but chuckle. Doubtless she thought he was there to save her. Once he killed the other two Bachiyr she would be his next meal. It was nice of them to tenderize her first.
“Go away,” one of the vampires said. “This doesn’t concern you.”