61 A.D.

22

Theron wiped the blood from his chin as he tossed the woman’s body to the street. Another prostitute. It seemed they were the only ones foolish enough to remain behind. Perhaps this one was thinking about all the coin she could make from the remaining soldiers now that most of her competition had fled. Foolish whore. What good will those coins do you now, he wondered. He caught himself casting about for a place to hide the body, and Baella’s words echoed in his mind.

Still living by their rules, are you?

It was true. For the last thirty years, even though he’d been an exile, he’d lived according to the laws of the Council. He’d never turned a human into one of his kind and he’d always taken the time to hide his victims, or at least to disguise their remains so the method of death would be unclear. After nearly three decades of being a fugitive, he had to ask himself why he still cared.

It’s good sense, he told himself. I don’t want to leave them a trail.

Except he still left them a trail. Every kill he hid under a bush, mutilated beyond recognition, or simply fed to the animals would give away his location to those who knew what to look for. Humans would not be able to detect it, but other Bachiyr, themselves familiar with the many ways to dispose of their victims, would know right away. Now that he thought about it, it was a wonder Ramah hadn’t caught him yet. The Councilor must have had many other things distracting him the last few decades.

That made him pause. Since the debacle in Jerusalem, Theron had assumed that his capture and punishment would be a high priority for the Council of Thirteen, but now he knew that to be untrue. A single renegade would be of little consequence, even a former Enforcer like himself. They probably had forgotten about him by now, with the exception of Ramah, who never forgot, the Council of Thirteen had most likely moved on to other matters.

As soon as he thought it, he knew it was true. He’d been part of the Council’s elite team for centuries. He had seen dozens of renegades come and go, some of them heinous, and others mere inconveniences. He could only remember a handful of their names, himself. The old Greek Bachiyr Arya had fled the Council after falling in love with a human and telling him about her race. Jaquar the Mad had left a bloody trail across Asia in his search for a human whose blood was said to protect Bachiyr from sunlight. Trandy, a young Bachiyr from Rome, had attempted to assassinate Councilor Lannis and escaped by sheer luck when the boat carrying the pursuing Enforcer sank in the waters near Athens. All of them had been big news at the time of their crimes, yet they were barely mentioned in meetings a year later even though, to Theron’s knowledge, none of them had ever been captured.

To the Council, Theron was probably nothing more than another fugitive. And he’d never given them a reason to feel otherwise. It was no secret that he would prefer to go back to the Council and regain their good graces. Theron thought of little else but the Halls of the Bachiyr and ripping out Taras’s throat. But the truth, he realized, was that they would never let him back. Theron, former Lead Enforcer and executor of the Council’s will in Judea, was never very important to the Council at all. Just another servant in a long list of them.

Who was Lead Enforcer now? Was it Ramah? Or did they give the task to another Bachiyr? Aliandra, perhaps? Did it matter? With the exception of Ramah, anyone else in the position would be expendable. Fodder to be used and tossed aside when they were done. The idea did nothing to ease his tension.

The single exception to the Council’s general apathy toward renegade Bachiyr stood in front of him. Baella. She alone had remained a high priority for centuries. He couldn’t help but wonder why. Was it her constant thwarting of their demands? Or simply the fact that she took every opportunity to make them look like fools?

Probably a bit of both, but as Theron watched her walk ahead of him, he could not help but admire her. She had remained free of their influence for…for…

How old was she, anyway?

He supposed it didn’t matter. Her age would mean nothing once he took her head to Herris. But the more he studied her movements; the lethal grace of her walk, the confident stretch of her legs, the more he came to wonder if he could kill her. After all, if the Councilors hadn’t been able to get rid of her, what chance did he have?

None.

Besides, he wasn’t sure he wanted to get back in the Council’s good graces anymore, anyway. Maybe he’d be better off learning a few things from Baella. Clearly, she wanted him alive for a reason.

Maybe, after thirty years of exile, things were looking up.

Baella smiled. Theron was just like every other Enforcer she’d encountered over the centuries. His thoughts were as easy to discern as they were to manipulate. She sent a few more images backward to his mind. Pictures of the two of them fighting a team of Enforcers sent to capture them. It was a glorious image, and one she knew he would like.

It was too bad he would never live long enough to enact it.

Theron was a prize, certainly, but her real prize was behind them, back in Londinium. Sooner or later, Ramah would catch up, and then Theron would become expendable.