61 A.D.

13

Theron awoke to the sound of someone groaning. It sounded distant, hollow, as though he heard it through a long corridor. The sound grew stronger and louder as he gradually drifted into consciousness. He kept his eyes closed and listened, not wanting to give away his growing lucidity.

The pain was amazing. All through his body tiny sizzles fired on his nerve endings, making his muscles twitch and spasm. Because of these involuntary movements, he knew without opening his eyes that he had been moved from the table to the stocks. The groaning sound must be Taras, who might be regaining his senses, as well. But did he have to be so damn noisy about it?

Theron opened his eye a crack and risked a quick look. He was in the same room as before. The chains on the wall where the Lost One had tortured Taras hung empty. He couldn’t see anyone else in the room with him. That didn’t mean anything, of course. With his head stuck in the stocks there could be an army behind him and he wouldn’t be able to see them. He might be able to hear the breathing of living occupants, or their heartbeats, but the only other people likely to be in the room with him had no need of either. Still, the silence of the place spoke to its emptiness. He hoped. He opened his eyes the rest of the way and looked around as well as he could, all the while expecting to hear Ramah’s chortling laughter behind him. When the laughter didn’t come, he listened harder. The sound of a mouse scurrying across the floor confirmed there was no Psalm of Silence on the room, which meant he probably was alone for the moment. Well, except for Taras. Ramah had left them both in the cell and gone off somewhere, probably to sleep away the day.

And why not? Neither of his prisoners were going anywhere. Not weak and shackled like they were. All Theron could do was wait for Ramah to kill him, which would probably occur just after dark. Most likely, the only reason he still lived at all was because Ramah had run out of time and had to find a place to spend the day.

Was it dark outside now? He was awake, which usually did not happen during the day. Did that mean dusk had come? If so, how long did he have before Ramah returned? It didn’t look good. Sooner or later the Councilor would come back to the room and finish what he’d started.

The hell with this, he thought. He strained his arms against the wood, hoping to break the lock, but it held. The coagulated, rusty brown stain on the floor told him well enough why. Ramah had spilled and wasted a great deal of his blood. He needed more. Without it he was too weak to break free.

“Theron?” The voice came from his left. Taras. He sounded weak as well.

Theron ignored him and again tried to break through his bonds. Once again they proved too strong for his blood-starved body.

“Theron?”

Theron ignored him again and put his mind to the task of escape. His body couldn’t get him out, so what could he do? He could try to bribe Ramah, though he didn’t have anything the Councilor would want or couldn’t take by force. Perhaps he could shout for help, hoping some human would wander by. But that might bring Ramah all the faster. Or the Lost One. The room wasn’t freezing, so he knew the cursed thing wasn’t near, but it couldn’t be far. Ramah would have it with him at all times.

He needed to think.

“Theron? Are you there?”

“Damn it, Roman. Where the hell else would I be?”

“Dead would have been my guess,” Taras replied.

“Not yet.”

“That was a Lost One, wasn’t it?”

“Nasty things, aren’t they?” Theron suppressed a shudder. The Lost Ones curdled his skin. “Nasty, but effective. Now be quiet.”

For a moment it seemed Taras would do what Theron asked, but then his voice came through the silence again. “Ramah wasted a great deal of your blood.”

“I can see that,” Theron said, looking again at the large dried puddle beneath him.

“Why didn’t he drink it?”

“I don’t know. Ask him.”

“Is our blood poisonous to other Bachiyr?”

“Of course not. Ramah just enjoys torture. Now be quiet and let me think before I remove your head from your shoulders.”

Taras managed to remain silent for a count of thirty, then he started again. “When I get out of this, Theron, I’m going to kill you.” Taras said.

Theron chuckled, a thick, wet gurgle. “I doubt you’ll get the chance. Ramah will kill you just to keep that pleasure for himself.”

“Ramah will not touch me once he talks to Lannis,” Taras said. “He obviously doesn’t know about our deal. Once she explains it to him, I will be free, and you will be dead.”

“Lannis?” Theron asked. “ Councillor Lannis? How in the Nine Hells do you know her?”

“She came to me a few nights ago and told me you were in Londinium. She offered me clemency from the Council if I helped capture you, which we did. Once she talks to Ramah-”

Theron couldn’t help his laughter, which cut through the room and silenced Taras’s stupidity. Now everything made sense. “You are a bigger fool than I thought, and I thought you were quite the fool, already.”

“We’ll see,” Taras replied. “When Lannis returns-”

“That wasn’t Lannis,” Theron said, still chuckling. “That was Baella. A renegade Bachiyr that the Council has been hunting for a very long time. She always seems to pop up and make things messy, then disappears again. I bet she vanished the second she saw Ramah, didn’t she?”

Silence from Taras.

“I thought as much,” Theron continued. “You fell right into her trap, Roman. I’m not sure what she wanted with you, but now that Ramah has you, you will probably not live to see the moon rise tomorrow.”

Taras said nothing, thankfully, and Theron returned to the task at hand. Namely, escaping the stocks and getting the hell out of Londinium before Ramah came back. It wouldn’t be easy, even if he did manage to get out of this room. Ramah wasn’t the only one out in the city looking for him. Besides the Lost One, there was also Baella.

Theron didn’t have any idea what she would be doing with someone like Taras, but it didn’t surprise him. Nothing she did surprised him. He, and the rest of the Council, had been hunting her for centuries. Her name was whispered in the Halls of the Bachiyr like a curse, as if just by saying it she might appear to wreak havoc. The Council of Thirteen had been trying to corral her almost from the very beginning of his race.

No one knew much about her. Her origins and age were a mystery. Some speculated she was as old as Herris. To be sure, she’d been around at least as long as 3,900 year old Jui Jyn, the Council’s youngest member, and probably longer. Very few had ever seen her, and fewer still lived to tell others about it. Some Bachiyr even considered her a myth, but Theron knew better. He and Ephraim had cornered her once in the Library of Alexandria, just a few decades before the debacle that had made Theron a renegade, himself. Theron had set fire to the building in an attempt to destroy her. Ephraim had been inside at the time, and none too pleased that he had almost been killed along with the renegade.

Their relationship had never been the same after that. From good friends to a cool, detached distance, and then Ephraim fell under the spell of that damn Jewish rabbi and ruined everything. Theron should have killed the bastard in Alexandria and saved himself a great deal of trouble.

A shadow fell over his face, interrupting his thoughts. He looked up to see Taras standing over him, fangs extended and eyes burning.

“Who is the fool now?” Taras asked.

Theron stared at Taras’s hands. They had shrunk. As he watched, they returned to their normal size, filling in and swelling like rising dough.

“How…?” Theron began.

“You mean you don’t know?” Taras shook his head. “Then why the hell would I tell you?” Taras stumbled, but managed to steady himself by placing a hand on Theron’s stocks. He stared at Theron and his ice-blue eyes shifted to red, his ragged face framed by dirty yellow hair. He grinned, revealing his fangs. “Thank you for answering my questions. I would never have known our blood was safe if not for you.”