61 A.D.

17

The damp smell of mold and mildew flowed up from the stone stairway when Ramah pushed open the worn, peeling door that led to the basement. He expected to find his Lost One minding Theron and Taras, who should be ready for questioning after spending the day locked away. Instead he found Taras lying unconscious or dead on the floor and Theron missing. The stout lock on the side of the wooden stocks was broken, and hung by the warped loop of metal, but he could see nothing out of place with the shackles on the wall. The bolts were still in place, and the rings hung limply from chains embedded into the stone. How had Taras escaped them?

His Lost One was nowhere to be seen.

He stood in the doorway and examined the rest of the room, wanting to make sure there would be no surprises when he went in. More than one Bachiyr had been trapped by not paying attention to his surroundings. Ramah should know, he was an expert at catching his victims unaware, and so was Theron. But the room seemed clear. No ominous shadows or dusty tarps, and the wind outside told him there was no Psalm of Silence on the room. The walls were bare but for a row of metal rods, each about four feet long and an inch thick. Ramah didn’t know their intended use, but they were good for beating a prisoner across the back, as he’d learned the previous night. Everything was as he’d left it. The only thing out of place was the Bachiyr on the floor.

Ramah stepped through the doorway, his anger growing with each step. He never should have left the Lost One alone with his charges. When he found the thing, he was going to destroy it for letting one of the prisoners escape. Especially Theron. Ramah could have coped with the escape of Taras, but not Theron. The former Lead Enforcer was the one he really wanted. The Roman was just an added bonus.

As he approached, he reminded himself that the yellow-haired former legionary had been an accomplished assassin in life, and had somehow managed to survive as an unauthorized Bachiyr for almost thirty years, despite being hunted by every agent the Council of Thirteen could muster. It would be a mistake to assume everything in the room was as it seemed. Taras could be feigning unconsciousness, waiting for Ramah to get close enough to strike. Not that it would matter. Ramah would crush him easily, and both of them knew it.

He kicked Taras in the side of his chest, noting the satisfying crack as one of the prone vampire’s ribs broke. Taras groaned and made a weak effort to curl into a fetal position, but apparently the effort was too much for him, and he soon lay still again.

What the hell happened here? Had Taras escaped his bonds and then tried to assist Theron? Ramah couldn’t help but smile at the thought. Theron would have attacked Taras as soon as he was free. Taras would have to be very stupid to believe otherwise.

But Taras isn’t stupid, Ramah thought. Weak, but not stupid. So what did happen?

Ramah knelt down and grabbed Taras by the shoulder, rolling him over on his back. Taras’s eyes were closed and his fangs were retracted. He groaned again as Ramah moved him, and his eyes opened a crack. After a moment, the Roman’s eyes widened. Recognition dawned on Taras’s face, and he tried to squirm away, but Ramah put his hands to the other man’s shoulders and pinned him to the floor.

“You remember me,” Ramah said, pleased.

Taras didn’t respond, but Ramah could see the man’s mind working behind his eyes, probably looking for an escape.

“Don’t bother,” Ramah said. “In your condition, you would not get far, and there is no city full of Jews to cover your escape this time.”

Taras’s face fell. He must know, just as Ramah did, that he had no hope of escaping. Last time he’d been lucky. Ramah had been occupied fighting off a large group of humans in Jerusalem, which allowed Taras time to get away.

Not this time.

“Where is Theron?” Ramah asked.

“I don’t know,” Taras replied, his voice faint.

“You freed him?”

“Never,” Taras spat. “I freed myself. After I escaped I went to kill him and someone attacked me from behind.”

“The Lost One?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was the room cold?” Ramah asked.

“It is cold everywhere I go,” Taras growled, his voice gaining strength. “I haven’t been warm since your lackey-”

Ramah cracked the other’s head on the stone floor, eliciting a yelp of pain. “Don’t press your luck, Roman. The moment you cease to be useful I will kill you.”

“No,” Taras blurted. “The room wasn’t cold.”

“That’s better.” Ramah paused. It couldn’t have been the Lost One, then. Could it have been Lannis who attacked Taras from behind? But why? If she had set all this in motion, turning the fresh vampires against Ramah and making a deal with Taras, why would she attack him once Theron was captured? Did she want to be the one to bring him in? If so, why? Lannis had never shown any interest in hunting down fugitives before. She enjoyed punishing them when Ramah or an Enforcer brought them in, but actually hunting for them was another matter. She preferred to sit, safe and snug, in her plush chambers while others did all the work.

Something wasn’t right.

“You mentioned a deal with Lannis,” Ramah said. “Tell me what she offered you.”

To his surprise, Taras shook his head and barked a weak, wet laugh. “The woman said I would be free if I helped her capture Theron. She told me I could stop running and live in peace.”

“And you believed her,” Ramah replied, a smile on the corner of his lips.

Taras nodded. “I did.”

“Lannis is not known for keeping her word.”

“Theron said the same thing. He also called me a fool.”

“He was right,” Ramah said. “You were a fool.”

“It doesn’t matter, anyway.”

“Of course not,” Ramah said. “Lannis cannot make deals for the Council. Only Headcouncil Herris can grant immunity.”

“No,” Taras said. “It doesn’t matter because it wasn’t Lannis who made the offer. It was someone else.”

“How do you know?” Ramah had figured as much, but he wanted confirmation.

“Theron saw her, too. He said the woman’s name was Baella.”

Ramah stopped, unsure he’d heard correctly. “Did you say Baella?”

“I did,” Taras said.

If Ramah’s lungs still worked, his breath would have caught in his throat. Baella! Finally! Here was the opportunity to capture the single most wanted renegade in the history of his race, and she had all but fallen into his lap. He had no idea what she would want with Theron, but he didn’t intend to let her have him.

“How long ago did they leave?” Ramah asked.

“I don’t know,” Taras replied. “I was unconscious.”

Ramah grabbed one of the sharp metal rods from the wall and drove it through Taras’s chest and into the stone underneath, pinning the renegade to the floor. While Taras screamed and writhed, Ramah noted that he’d missed the heart, but not by much. Damn. He turned his back on Taras and walked up the stairs, nearly tripping on the top step in his haste to catch up to Baella and Theron.

“Don’t worry,” he called over his shoulder, “I’ll finish the job when I get back.”