“Of course he does,” she snapped, losing her temper and her focus at the same time. The flames on Agnor’s crotch died instantly, but his screams went on. She turned to regard her servant, concerned about his line of questioning. Did he think she was a fool? “Theron hates Taras with a passion. He’ll never rest until…until…”
Until Taras is dead, she realized.
That’s what Feyo was trying to say. Of course. Bait for bigger bait. Ramah might not come looking for Taras, but he would come for Theron. And Theron, she thought, will come for Taras. No matter where he is.
“Brilliant,” she said. “Well done, Feyo.”
Feyo’s face cracked in a wide smile. “What are your orders, Mistress?”
“Send twenty men out. Give them each twenty gold and tell them to spread word of a tall, blonde man in Londinium with sharp teeth in every tavern and brothel they come to. When the men run out of gold, they are to return here and report. Theron likes to hunt in those places, he’ll hear about it eventually.”
“Yes, Mistress.” Feyo bowed and left the room.
Once word spread that Taras was hiding in Londinium, Theron would make all haste to get there. She would have to plant a message in the Council, as well, to make sure Herris found out. He would send Ramah, and she would be waiting.
Finally, after four thousand years, the Blood Letter would be hers.
Agnor whimpered, drawing her attention back to the table.
“You heard that, I suppose,” she said.
Agnor nodded. “You don’t need me anymore.”
“So it seems,” she replied.
His look of relief brought a smile to her lips, and she couldn’t stifle a short, derisive laugh. “You think that entitles you to a quick death?”
“But…you don’t need me,” he repeated. “You have what you want.”
“Yes, but not from you,” she replied. “Rest assured, when the time comes for me to kill Feyo he will die quick and painlessly. You, on the other hand, will be around for a very long time.”
When Baella brought the flames back, Agnor’s scream seemed even louder and sweeter than before.
I’m coming for you, Ramah.
1
A small tavern in Southern Spain, 61 A.D.
Gregor’s friends were laughing at him. “I’m telling you, I wasn’t drunk,” he said. “I saw him. He was seven feet tall if he was an inch.”
“You’re drunk now, Gregor,” Zebhoim said.
“So are you,” Gregor shot back. “Yet you see me just fine.”
“You’re a little blurry,” Zebhoim replied, winking.
“Maybe so, but I wasn’t drunk that night. He was seven feet tall and had long, shaggy blonde hair. Looked like one of those northerners, except for the teeth.”
“Yes, the teeth,” Boro said, laughing. “Tell us again how sharp they were.”
“They were like needles,” Gregor insisted. “And he came at me real fast, I almost didn’t see him. I barely escaped with my life.”
The serving girl brought the wine, and Gregor drank deeply of his cup before he continued. “The strangest part was when he spoke to me. A man like that, I expected to hear the language of the north, but he spoke in Roman.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me to run,” Gregor said. “It was the strangest thing. I thought I was a dead man, but he stopped about five paces away and told me to run. Looked like he was in pain or something, and his chin had blood all over it.”
Zebhoim laughed again. “A tall northerner, speaking Roman, with sharp teeth and blood on his chin came up to you and told you to run?” At this, the rest of the table joined in the laughter.
“It’s true, I tell you,” Gregor said.
Zebhoim laughed harder. When he finally settled into a series of chuckles, he wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “True or not,” he said, “it’s a story that deserves a drink.” He called to the serving girl and ordered another round, while several of the other men continued to laugh and poke fun at Gregor.
Gregor stewed in his chair until the serving girl arrived with the drinks, then he reached over and grabbed one. He might be angry that his friends refuse to believe him, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t drink their ale. He raised the mug to his mouth and downed it, much to the amusement of the other men at the table, who promptly ordered another round. Soon he forgot all about Zebhoim’s laughter.
A few hours later Gregor stumbled out the door and into the street. He looked at the sky and realized for the first time that the sun would be up in a couple of hours. He’d been drinking with his friends almost all night. At least it was fun. After Zebhoim started buying drinks, the night got interesting. Gregor would have stayed longer except he had started seeing two tables where only one should be. That and he felt a pressing need to empty his bladder.
He walked into an alley near the tavern and untied the leather thong in front of his trousers, barely managing to free his cock in time to avoid wetting himself. A great sense of relief spread through him as the pressure on his bladder eased, and he sighed. Drunk as he was, he swayed back and forth, spraying his boots with piss.
“Damn it,” Gregor swore, lifting his leg and shaking his boot. This caused him to sway even more, and he nearly fell over. He only managed to catch himself by placing both hands on the wall. Of course, since he was still in the middle of urinating, this meant he splashed himself and the wall even further.
“Damn it,” Gregor repeated. He steadied himself against the wall, then reached down with his left hand and grabbed his flailing manhood. Thankfully he managed to finish the rest of the job without further incident.
His good mood gone, he re-tied his trousers and tried to shake some of the urine off them, but it didn’t do any good. He would have to have the girl at the inn wash them or he would spend the whole day smelling like piss. She wouldn’t do it for free, either.
Gregor grumbled about the cost of everything and turned to leave the alley. He froze in his tracks at the sight of the man behind him. The newcomer was dark, and hidden in the shadows of the alley, but Gregor could see the outline of sharp, high cheekbones and shoulder length dark hair. His eyes shone red in the middle of his face, giving off a surreal glow that only magnified the two sharp fangs in the stranger’s mouth.
Gregor had thought his bladder empty, but as he stared at the man’s eyes and teeth, he felt a tiny trickle escape and moisten the front of his trousers. He took a deep breath, ready to shout for help, while his right hand stole to the dagger at his hip.
The stranger’s arm shot forward, his hand clamping down on Gregor’s throat and shoving him back against the building. Gregor felt the moisture on his rump as the urine on the wall soaked the back of his trousers, but of more concern was the lack of air as the stranger’s hand closed around his throat. Gregor gasped and tried to pry the man’s fingers from his windpipe, but it was like trying to pry open a pair of iron shackles. Despite the lack of air, he couldn’t help but notice the color of the man’s hand. Black, like charred skin. It didn’t match the olive color of his face.
“Don’t struggle,” the man said. “It will not do you any good. Save your strength.”
Gregor gurgled. His vision swam and he was starting to feel lightheaded.
“You are mine until I release you,” the stranger said. “Do you understand?”
Gregor nodded.
“You have information I want. I am going to release your throat. If you scream, the rats in this alley will feast tonight,” the stranger said. With that, he opened his hand, allowing Gregor to suck in air. When Gregor caught his breath, he looked up to see the man staring down at him with those odd red eyes. His toothy mouth was curled into a sadistic grin.
“What do you want from me?” Gregor asked.
“Tell me about the tall Roman with teeth like mine.”